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THE  DODGE  LIBRARY 

EMERSON’S  ESSAYS  . . First  Series 

EMERSON’S  ESSAYS  . . Second  Series 

THE  POETRY  OF  EARTH  A Nature  Anthology 
PARADISE  LOST  . . . John  Milton 

THE  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA  . . Charles  Lamb 

THE  THOUGHTS  OF  MARCUS 

AURELIUS  ANTONINUS  . George  Long 

THE  SUNLIT  ROAD  Edited  by  W.  Garret  Harder 
REPRESENTATIVE  MEN  . . Emerson 

ENGLISH  TRAITS  ....  Emerson 
SARTOR  RESARTUS  . . . Carlyle 

THE  BOOK  OF  EPICTETUS 

Being  the  Enchiridion  together  with 
Chapters  from  the  Discourses  and  Selected 
Fragments  of  Epictetus.  Translated  by- 
Elizabeth  Carter,  Selected  and  Arranged 
by  T.  W.  Rolleston. 

LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA  . . Charles  Lamb 

HEROES  AND  HERO  WORSHIP 

Thomas  Carlyle 

NATURE  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  . Emerson 
THE  CONDUCT  OF  LIFE  . . Emerson 


ON  HEROES  HERO. 
WORSHIP  » » ^ ^ 


PHE  DODGE  LIBRARY 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
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Thomas  Carlyle 


)N  H EROE  S 
lERO-WORSHIP 

ND  THE  HEROIC  IN 
ISTORY  ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 
HOMAS  CARLYLE 


iWYORK  .-DODGE 
’BUSHING  COMPANY 

EAST  TWENTY-THIRD  ST. 


] 


HEROES  HERO-WORSHIP 


LECTURE  I 

JjThe  Hero  as  Divinity.  Odin.  Pagan- 
ism : Scandinavian  Mythology  Page  3 


LECTURE  II 
as  Prophet.  Mahomet ; 

LECTURE  III 
as  Poet.  Dante ; Shak- 


t The  Hero 
IJ  Islam 

t The  Hero 
I speare 

n LECTURE  IV 

The  Hero  as  Priest.  Luther;  Re- 
formation  : Knox  ; Puritanism 

i 


LECTURE  V 


% 1 
I /c 
I n 


Rousseau,  Burns 

LECTURE  VI 

le  Hero  as  King.  Cromwell,  Napo- 
leon : Modern  Revolutionism 


53 


I ^rhe  Hero  as  Man  of  Letters.  Johnson, 


97 


143 


191 


243 


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^LECTURE  ONE 

THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY. 

Odin,  paganism:  Scan- 
dinavian MYTHOLOGY 

Tuesday^  5th  May,  1840 


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LECTURE  I.  THE  HERO 
\S  DIVINITY 

WE  have  undertaken  to  discourse  here 
for  a little  on  Great  Men,  their 
manner  of  appearance  in  our  world’s 
business,  how  they  have  shaped  them- 
elves  in  the  world’s  history,  what  ideas  men  formed 
)f  them,  what  work  they  did  ; — on  Heroes,  namely, 
nd  on  their  reception  and  performance  ; what  I call 
lero-worship  and  the  Heroic  in  human  affairs, 
.^oo  evidently  this  is  a large  topic  ; deserving  quite 
ther  treatment  than  we  can  expect  to  give  it  at  pre- 
mt.  A large  topic  ; indeed,  an  illimitable  one ; wide 
5 Universal  History  itself.  For,  as  I take  it,  Uni- 
ersal  History,  the  history  of  what  man  has  accom- 
ished  in  this  world,  is  at  bottom  the  History  of 
Great  Men  who  have  worked  here.  They  were 
e leaders  of  men,  these  greaTones ; tbe  modellers, 
ittems,  and  in  a wide  sense  creators,  of  whatsoever 
e general  mass  of  men  contrived  to  do  or  to  attain; 
1 things  that  we  see  standing  accomplished  in  the 
/^orld  are  properly  the  outer  material  result,  the 
ractical  realisation  and  embodiment,  of  Thoughts 
lat  dwelt  in  the  Great  Men  sent  into  the  world : 
le  soul  of  the  whole  world’s  history,  it  may  justly  be 
jnsidered,  were  the  history  of  these.  Too  clearly 
it  is  a topic  we  shall  do  no  justice  to  in  this  place! 

One  comfort  is,  that  Great  Men,  taken  up  in  any 
way,  are  profitable  company.  We  cannot  look,  how- 
ever imperfectly,  upon  a great  man,  without  gaining 
Something  by  him.  He  is  the  living  light-fountain. 
Which  it  is  good  and  pleasant  to  be  near.  The  light 
ivhich  enlightens,  which  has  enlightened  the  dark- 
less of  the  world ; and  this  not  as  a kindled  lamp 
only,  but  rather  as  a natural  luminary  shining  by  the 
gift  of  Heaven ; a flowing  light-fountain,  as  I say,  of 

3 


f 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

native  original  insight,  of  manhood  and  heroic  nobl^n 
ness ; — in  whose  radiance  all  souls  feel  that  it  is  we 
with  them.  On  any  terms  whatsoever,  you  willnc 
grudge  to  wander  in  such  neighbourhood  for  a whil< 
These  Six  classes  of  Heroes,  chosen  out  of  widel^|^i 
distant  countries  and  epochs,  and  in  mere  extern; 
figure  differing  altogether,  ought,  if  we  look  faitl 
fully  at  them,  to  illustrate  several  things  for  u 
Could  we  see  them  well,  we  should  get  some  glimps< 
into  the  very  marrow  of  the  world’s  history.  Ho 
happy,  could  I but,  in  any  measure,  in  such  timi 
las  these,  make  manifest  to  you  the  meanings 
1 Heroism  ; the  divine  relation  (for  I may  well  cal' 

I such)  which  in  all  times  unites  a Great  Man  to  othj 
men ; and  thus,  as  it  were,  not  exhaust  my  subje 
but  so  much  as  break  ground  on  it ! At  all  ever 
I must  make  the  attempt. 


It  is  well  said,  in  every  sense,  that  a man’s  religi^^ 
is  the  chief  fact  with  regard  to  him.  A man’s, 
nation  of  men’s.  By  religion  I do  not  mean  heig 
the  church-creed  which  he  professes,  the  articlL. 
of  faith  which  he  will  sign  and,  in  words  or  otheijg 
wise,  assert ; not  this  wholly,  in  many  cases  not  tbh 
at  all.  We  see  men  of  all  kinds  of  professed  creeot, 
attain  to  almost  all  degrees  of  worth  orworthlessnes5( 
under  each  or  any  of  them.  This  is  not  what  I cal 
religion,  this  profession  and  assertion ; which  h 
often  only  a profession  and  assertion  from  the  out- 
works of  the  man,  from  the  mere  argumentative 
region  of  him,  if  even  so  deep  as  that.  But  the  thinj  [ 
a man  does  practically  believe  (and  this  is  oftei  ^ 
enough  without  asserting  it  even  to  himself,  mud . 
less  to  others) ; the  thing  a man  does  practically  la> 
to  heart,  and  know  for  certain,  concerning  his  vital 
relations  to  this  mysterious  Universe,  and  his  duty 
4 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

am  destiny  there,  that  is  in  all  cases  the  primary 
th^Jg  for  him,  and  creatively  determines  all  the  rest/^ 
Tylt  is  his  religion  ; or,  it  may  be,  his  mere  scepticism 
aigj  no-religion : the  manner  it  is  in  which  he  feels 
h Uself  to  be  spiritually  related  to  the  Unseen  World 
oijjjo- world ; and  I say,  if  you  tell  me  what  that  is, 
yc  J tell  me  to  a very  great  extent  what  the  man  is, 
w^t  the  kind  of  things  he  will  do  is.  Of  a man  or 
oi^  nation  we  inquire,  therefore,  first  of  all.  What 
reigion  they  had?  Was  it  Heathenism, — plurality 
of  ^ods,  mere  sensuous  representation  of  this  Mys- 
teiy  of  Life,  and  for  chief  recognised  element  there- 
in ?hysical  Force?  Was  it  Christianism  ; faith  in 
an  Invisible,  not  as  real  only,  but  as  the  only  reality ; 
Tine,  through  every  meanest  moment  of  it,  resting 
oi^Eternity ; Pagan  empire  of  F orce  displaced  by  a 
n(  J5>ler  supremacy,  that  of  Holiness  ? Was  it  Scepti- 
ci^^n,  uncertainty  and  inquiry  whether  there  was  an 
Uj-seen  World,  any  Mystery  of  Life  except  a mad 
oii3  ; — doubt  as  to  all  this,  or  perhaps  unbelief  and 
flat  denial  ? Answering  of  this  question  is  giving  us 
the  soul  of  the  history  of  the  man  or  nation.  The 
thoughts  they  had  were  the  parents  ofthe  actions  they 
did  ; their  feelings  were  parents  of  their  thoughts  : 
it  v^as  the  unseen  and  spiritual  in  them  that  deter- 
minied  the  outward  and  actual ; — their  religion,  as  I 
say  was  the  great  fact  about  them.  In  these  Dis- 
coij  rses,  limited  as  we  are,  it  will  be  good  to  direct  our 
suijWey  chiefly  to  that  religious  phasis  of  the  matter. 
Th  at  once  known  well,  all  is  known.  We  have  chosen 
as  [the  first  Hero  in  our  series,  Odin  the  central  figure 
of  ^Scandinavian  Paganism ; an  emblem  to  us  of  a 
mc]St  extensive  province  of  things.  Let  us  look,  for 
a little,  at  the  Hero  as  Divinity,  the  oldest  primary 
foirim  of  Heroism. 

kj^ureJy  it  seems  a very  strange-looking  thing  this 

5 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHII 

Paganism;  almost  inconceivable  to  us  in  these  dys. 
A bewildering,  inextricable  jungle  of  delusions,  in- 
fusions, falsehoods,  and  absurdities,  coveringBhe 
whole  field  of  Life  ! A thing  that  fills  us  with  a»n- 
ishment,  almost,  if  it  were  possible,  with  incrlu- 
lity, — for  truly  it  is  not  easy  to  understand  that  mie 
men  could  ever  calmly,  with  their  eyes  open,  bell ve 
and  live  by  such  a set  of  doctrines.  That  men  sh«ld 
have  worshiped  their  poor  fellow-man  as  a God,  fad 
not  him  only,  but  stocks  and  stones,  and  all  manfier 
of  animate  and  inanimate  objects  ; and  fashionedfor 
themselves  such  a distracted  chaos  of  hallucinatibns 
byway  of  Theory  of  the  Universe : all  this  looks  ike 
an  incredible  fable.  Nevertheless  it  is  a clear  act 
that  they  did  it.  Such  hideous  inextricable  jurgle 
of  misworships,  misbeliefs,  men,  made  as  we  are,  lid 
actually  hold  by,  and  live  at  home  in.  This  is  strai»e. 
Y es,  we  may  pause  in  sorrow  and  silence  over  1 le 
depths  of  darkness  that  are  in  man  ; if  we  rejoica  in 
the  heights  of  purer  vision  he  has  attained  to.  Such. 
things  were  and  are  in  man ; in  all  men ; in  us  too. 

Some  speculators  have  a short  way  of  account  ing 
for  the  Pagan  religion:  mere  quackery,  priestcraft, 
and  dupery,  say  they ; no  sane  man  ever  did  belic>ve 
it, — merely  contrived  to  persuade  other  men,  inot 
worthy  of  the  name  of  sane,  to  believe  it ! It  will  be 
often  our  duty  to  protest  against  this  sort  of  hylpo- 
thesis  about  men’s  doings  and  history ; and  I here, 
on  the  very  threshold,  protest  against  it  in  referen  ce 
to  Paganism,  and  to  all  other  isms  by  which  man  h as 
ever  for  a length  of  time  striven  to  walk  in  this  wor  Id. 
They  have  all  had  a truth  in  them,  or  men  wot’  Id 
not  have  taken  them  up.  Quackery  and  dupery  ' do 
abound ; in  religions,  above  all  in  the  more  advanc  id 
decaying  stages  of  religions,  they  have  fearfu^  ly 
abounded  : but  quackery  was  never  the  originat  j ng 
6 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

influ;ence  m such  things ; it  was  not  the  health  and 
life  pf  such  things,  but  their  disease,  the  sure  pre- 
cursor of  their  being  about  to  die  ! Let  us  never  for- 
get ;this.  It  seems  to  me  a most  mournful  hypothesis, 
that  of  quackery  giving  birth  to  any  faith  even  in 
savage  men.  Quackery  gives  birth  to  nothing  ; gives 
death  to  all  things.  We  shall  not  see  into  the  true 
heart  of  anything,  if  we  look  merely  at  the  quack- 
eries of  it ; if  we  do  not  reject  the  quackeries  alto- 
'gether ; as  mere  diseases,  corruptions,  with  which 
our  and  all  men’s  sole  duty  is  to  have  done  with  them, 
to  sweep  them  out  of  our  thoughts  as  out  of  our 
practice.  Man  everywhere  is  the  born  enemy  of  lies. 
I find  Grand  Lamaism  itself  to  have  a kind  of  truth 
in  it.  Read  the  candid,  clear-sighted,  rather  sceptical 
Mr.  Turner’s  Account  of  his  Embassy  to  that  country, 
and  see.  They  have  their  belief,  these  poor  Thibet 
people,  that  Providence  sends  down  always  an 
Incarnation  of  Himself  into  every  generation.  At 
bottom  some  belief  in  a kind  of  Pope  ! At  bottom 
still  better,  belief  that  there  is  a Greatest  Man ; that  he 
is  discoverable  ; that,  once  discovered,  we  ought  to 
treat  him  with  an  obedience  which  knows  no  bounds! 
This  is  the  truth  of  Grand  Lamaism ; the  ‘ discover- 
ability ’ is  the  only  error  here.  The  Thibet  Priests 
have  methods  of  their  own  of  discovering  what  Man 
is  Greatest,  fit  to  be  supreme  over  them.  Bad 
methods:  but  are  they  so  much  worse  than  our 
methods, — of  understanding  him  to  be  always  the 
eldest-born  of  a certain  genealogy  ? Alas,  it  is  a 

difficult  thing  to  find  good  methods  for  ! We  shall 

begin  to  have  a chance  of  understanding  Paganism, 
when  we  first  admit  that  to  its  followers  it  was,  at 
one  time,  earnestly  true.  Let  us  consider  it  very 
certain  that  men  did  believe  in  Paganism ; men  with 
open  eyes,  sound  senses,  men  made  altogether  like 

7 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHII^ 

ourselves ; that  we,  had  we  been  there,  should  have 
believed  in  it.  Ask  now,  What  Paganism  could  bave 
been  ? 

Another  theory,  somewhat  more  respectable, 
attributes  such  things  to  Allegory.  It  was  a play  of 
poetic  minds,  say  these  theorists ; a shadowing-forth, 
in  allegorical  fable,  in  personification  and  visual 
form,  of  what  such  poetic  minds  had  known  and  felt 
of  this  Universe.  Which  agrees,  add  they,  with  a 
primary  law  of  human  nature,  still  everywhere  ob- 
servably at  work,  though  in  less  important  things, 

I That  what  a man  feels  intensely,  he  struggles  to 
1 speak-out  of  him,  to  see  represented  before  him  in 
visual  shape,  and  as  if  with  a kind  of  life  and  histori- 
; cal  reality  in  it.  Now  doubtless  there  is  such  a law, 
and  it  is  one  of  the  deepest  in  human  nature ; neither 
need  we  doubt  that  it  did  operate  fundamentally  in 
this  business.  The  hypothesis  which  ascribes  Pagan- 
ism wholly  or  mostly  to  this  agency,  I call  a little 
more  respectable ; but  I cannot  yet  call  it  the  true 
hypothesis.  Think,  would  we  believe,  and  take  with 
us  as  our  life-guidance,  an  allegory,  a poetic  sport? 
Not  sport  but  earnest  is  what  we  should  require.  It 
is  a most  earnest  thing  to  be  alive  in  this  world  ; to 
die  is  not  sport  for  a man.  Man’s  life  never  was  a 
sport  to  him ; it  was  a stern  reality,  altogether  a 
serious  matter  to  be  alive ! I find,  therefore,  that 
though  these  Allegory  theorists  are  on  the  way  to- 
wards truth  in  this  matter,  they  have  not  reached  it 
either.  Pagan  Religion  is  indeed  an  Allegory,  a Sym- 
bol of  what  men  felt  and  knew  about  the  Universe  ; 
and  all  Religions  ar©  symbols  of  that,  altering  always 
as  that  alters : but  it  seems  to  me  a radical  perver- 
sion, and  even  inversion,  of  the  business,  to  put  that 
forward  as  the  origin  and  moving  cause,  when  it  was 
rather  the  result  and  termination.  To  get  beautiful 
8 


. THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

allegories,  a perfect  poetic  symbol,  was  not  the  want 
of  m|sn ; but  to  know  what  they  were  to  believe  about  1 
this  Universe,  what  course  they  were  to  steer  in  it;  ( 
what,  in  this  mysterious  Life  of  theirs,  they  had  to  ^ 
hope  and  to  fear,  to  do  and  to  forbear  doing.  The 
Pilgrim’s  Progress  is  an  Allegory,  and  a beautiful,  just 
and  serious  one : but  consider  whether  Bunyan’s 
Allegory  could  have  preceded  the  Faith  it  symbolises ! 
The  Faith  had  to  be  already  there,  standing  believed 
by  everybody ; — of  which  the  Allegory  could  then 
become  a shadow ; and,  with  all  its  seriousness,  we 
may  say  a sportful  shadow,  a mere  play  of  the  Fancy, 
in  comparison  with  that  awful  Fact  and  scientific 
certainty,  which  it  poetically  strives  to  emblem.  The 
Allegory  is  the  product  of  the  certainty,  not  the  pro- 
ducer of  it ; not  in  Bunyan’s  nor  in  any  other  case. 
For  Paganism,  therefore,  we  have  still  to  inquire. 
Whence  came  that  scientific  certainty,  the  parent  of 
such  a bewildered  heap  of  allegories,  errors  and 
confusions?  How  was  it,  what  was  it? 

Surely  it  were  a foolish  attempt  to  pretend  ‘ ex- 
plaining,’ in  this  place,  or  in  any  place,  such  a 
phenomenon  as  that  far-distant  distracted  cloudy 
imbroglio  of  Paganism,— more  like  a cloudfield,  than 
a distant  continent  of  firm  land  and  facts  ! It  is  no 
longer  a reality,  yet  it  was  one.  We  ought  to  under- 
stand that  this  seeming  cloudfield  was  once  a reality; 
that  not  poetic  allegory,  least  of  all  that  dupery  and 
deception  was  the  origin  of  it.  Men,  I say,  never 
did  believe  idle  songs,  never  risked  their  soul’s  life 
on  allegories  : men,  in  all  times,  especially  in  early 
earnest  times,  have  had  an  instinct  for  detecting 
quacks,  for  detesting  quacks.  Let  us  try  if,  leaving 
out  both  the  quack  theory  and  the  allegory  one, 
and  listening  with  affectionate  attention  to  that  far- 
off  confused  rumour  of  the  Pagan  ages,  we  cannot 

9 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIJP 

ascertain  so  much  as  this  at  least,  That  there  was 
a kind  of  fact  at  the  heart  of  them ; that  theiy  too 
were  not  mendacious  and  distracted,  but  in  their 
own  poor  way  true  and  sane  ! 

You  remember  that  fancy  of  Plato’s,  of  a man 
who  had  grown  to  maturity  in  some  dark  distance, 
and  was  brought  on  a sudden  into  the  upper  air  to 
see  the  sun  rise.  What  would  his  wonder  be,  his 
rapt  astonishment  at  the  sight  we  daily  witness  with 
indifference ! With  the  free  open  sense  of  a child, 
yet  with  the  ripe  faculty  of  a man,  his  whole  heart 
would  be  kindled  by  that  sight,  he  would  discern 
it  well  to  be  Godlike,  his  soul  would  fall  down  in 
worship  before  it.  Now,  just  such  a childlike  great- 
ness was  in  the  primitive  nations.  The  first  Pagan 
Thinker  among  rude  men,  the  first  man  that  began 
to  think,  was  precisely  this  child-man  of  Plato’s. 
Simple,  open  as  a child,  yet  with  the  depth  and 
strength  of  a man.  Nature  had  as  yet  no  name  to 
him ; he  had  not  yet  united  under  a name  the  in- 
finite variety  of  sights,  sounds,  shapes  and  motions, 
which  we  now  collectively  name  Universe,  Nature, 
or  the  like, — and  so  with  a name  dismiss  it  from  us. 
' To  the  wild  deep-hearted  man  all  was  yet  new,  not 
Veiled  under  names  or  formulas ; it  stood  naked, 
fiashing-in  on  him  there,  beautiful,  awful,  unspeak- 
able. Nature  was  to  this  man,  what  to  the  Thinker 
and  Prophet  it  forever  is,  preternatural.  This  green 
jflowery  rock-built  earth,  the  trees,  the  mountains, 
rivers,  many-sounding  seas; — that  great  deep  sea 
of  azure  that  swims  overhead ; the  winds  sweep- 
ing through  it ; the  black  cloud  fashioning  itself 
together,  now  pouring  out  fire,  now  hail  and  rain ; 
what  is  it  ? Ay,  what  ? At  bottom  we  do  not  yet 
know  ; we  can  never  know  at  all.  It  is  not  by  our 
10 

( 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 


superior  insight  that  we  escape  the  difficulty;  it  is 
by  our  superior  levity,  our  inattention,  our  want  of 
insight.  It  is  by  not  thinking  that  we  cease  to  won- 
der at  it.  Hardened  round  us,  encasing  wholly  every 
notion  we  form,  is  a wrappage  of  traditions,  hear- 
says, mere  words.  We  call  that  fire  of  the  black 
thunder-cloud  ‘ electricity,’  and  lecture  learnedly 
about  it,  and  grind  the  like  of  it  out  of  glass  and  silk: 
but  what  is  it  ? What  made  it  ? Whence  comes  it  ? 
Whither  goes  it?  Science  has  done  much  for  us; 
but  it  is  a poor  science  that  would  hide  from  us  the 
great  deep  sacred  infinitude  of  Nescience,  whither  we 
can  never  penetrate,  on  which  all  science  swims  as  a 
mere  superficial  film.  This  world,  after  all  our  science 
and  sciences,  is  still  a miracle ; wonderful,  inscrut- 
able, magical  and  more,  to  whosoever  will  think  of  it. 

That  great  mystery  of  Time,  were  there  no  other; 
the  illimitable,  silent,  never  - resting  thing  called 
Time,  rolling,  rushing  on,  swift,  silent,  like  an  all- 
embracing  ocean-tide,  on  which  we  and  all  the  Uni- 
verse swim  like  exhalations,  like  apparitions  which 
are,  and  then  are  not : this  is  forever  very  literally  a 
miracle ; a thing  to  strike  us  dumb, — for  we  have  no 
word  to  speak  about  it.  This  Universe,  ah  me  ! — 
what  could  the  wild  man  know  of  it ; what  can  we 
yet  know?  That  it  is  a Force,  and  thousandfold 
Complexity  of  Forces ; a Force  which  is  not  we.  That 
is  all ; it  is  not  we,  it  is  altogether  different  from  us. 
Force,  Force,  everywhere  Force;  we  ourselves  a 
mysterious  F orce  in  the  centre  of  that.  ‘There  is  not 
a leaf  rotting  on  the  highway  but  has  Force  in  it : 
how  else  could  it  rot  ? ’ Nay  surely,  to  the  Atheistic 
Thinker,  if  such  a one  were  possible,  it  must  be  a 
miracle  too,  this  huge  illimitable  whirlwind  of  Force, 
which  envelops  us  here ; never-resting  whirlwind, 
high  as  Immensity,  old  as  Eternity.  What  is  it  ? 

11 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSEiIP 

God’s  Creation,  the  religious  people  answer;  it  is  the 
Almighty  God’s  ! Atheistic  science  babbles  poorly 
of  it,  with  scientific  nomenclatures,  experiments 
and  what-not,  as  if  it  were  a poor  dead  thing,  to  be 
bottled-up  in  Leyden  jars,  and  sold  over  counters: 
but  the  natural  sense  of  man,  in  all  times,  if  he  will 
honestly  apply  his  sense,  proclaims  it  to  be  a living 
thing, — ah,  an  unspeakable,  godlike  thing ; towards 
which  the  best  attitude  for  us,  after  never  so  much 
science,  is  awe,  devout  prostration  and  humility  of 
soul ; worship  if  not  in  words,  then  in  silence. 

But  now  I remark  farther : What  in  such  a time 
as  ours  it  requires  a Prophet  or  Poet  to  teach 
us,  namely,  the  stripping-off  of  those  poor  unde- 
vout  wrappages,  nomenclatures  and  scientific  hear- 
says,— this,  the  ancient  earnest  soul,  as  yet  unen- 
cumbered with  these  things,  did  for  itself.  The 
world,  which  is  now  divine  only  to  the  gifted,  was 
then  divine  to  whosoever  would  turn  his  eye  upon 
it.  He  stood  bare  before  it  face  to  face.  ‘ All  was 
Godlike  or  God’: — Jean  Paul  still  finds  it  so;  the 
giant  Jean  Paul,  who  has  power  to  escape  out  of 
hearsays : but  then  there  were  no  hearsays.  Cano- 
pus shining-down  over  the  desert,  with  its  blue 
diamond  brightness  (that  wild  blue  spirit-like  bright- 
ness, far  brighter  than  we  ever  witness  here),  would 
pierce  into  the  heart  of  the  wild  Ishmaelitish  man, 
whom  it  was  guiding  through  the  solitary  waste  there. 
To  his  wild  heart,  with  all  feelings  in  it,  with  no  speech 
for  any  feeling,  it  might  seem  a little  eye,  that  Cano- 
pus, glancing-out  on  him  from  the  great  deep  Eter- 
nity ; revealing  the  inner  Splendour  to  him.  Cannot 
we  understand  how  these  men  worshiped  Canopus ; 
became  what  we  call  Sabeans,  worshiping  the  stars  ? 
Such  is  to  me  the  secret  of  all  forms  of  Paganism. 
Worship  is  transcendent  wonder ; wonder  for  which 
12 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

there  now  no  limit  or  measure ; that  is  worship. 
To  these  primeval  men,  all  things  and  everything 
they  saw  exist  beside  them  were  an  emblem  of  the 
Godlike,  of  some  God./ 

/'  And  look  what  perennial  fibre  of  truth  was  in  that. 
To  us  also,  through  every  star,  through  every  blade 
of  grass,  is  not  a God  made  visible,  if  we  will  open 
our  minds  and  eyes?  We  do  not  worship  in  that  way 
now ; but  is  it  not  reckoned  still  a merit,  proof  of 
what  we  call  a ‘poetic  nature,’  that  we  recognise  how 
every  object  has  a divine  beauty  in  it ; how  every 
object  still  verily  is  ‘ a window  through  which  we 
may  look  into  Infinitude  itself?  ’ He  that  can  discern 
the  loveliness  of  things,  we  call  him  Poet,  Painter, 
Man  of  Genius,  gifted,  lovable.  These  poor  Sabeans 
did  even  what  he  does, — in  their  own  fashion.  That 
they  did  it,  in  what  fashion  soever,  was  a merit : 
better  than  what  the  entirely  stupid  man  did,  what 
the  horse  and  camel  did, — namely,  nothing ! 

//  But  now  if  all  things  whatsoever  that  we  look  upon 
are  emblems  to  us  of  the  Highest  God,  I add  that 
more  so  than  any  of  them  is  man  such  an  emblem. 
You  have  heard  of  St.  Chrysostom’s  celebrated 
saying,  in  reference  to  the  Shekinah,  or  Ark  of 
Testimony,  visible  Revelation  of  God,  among  the 
Hebrews:  “The  true  Shekinah  is  Man!”  Yes, 
it  is  even  so : this  is  no  vain  phrase ; it  is  veritably 
so.  The  essence  of  our  being,  the  mystery  in 
us  that  calls  itself  “I,” — ah,  what  words  have 
we  for  such  things  ? — is  a breath  of  Heaven ; 
the  Highest  Being  reveals  himself  in  man.  This 
body,  these  faculties,  this  life  of  ours,  is  it  not  all 
as  a vesture  for  that  Unnamed?  ‘There  is  but  one 
temple  in  the  Universe,’  says  the  devout  Novalis, 
‘and  that  is  the  Body  of  Man.  Nothing  is  holier  than 
that  high  form.  Bending  before  men  is  a reverence 

13 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

done  to  this  Revelation  in  the  Flesh.  We  touch 
Heaven  when  we  lay  our  hand  on  a human  body !’ 
This  sounds  much  like  a mere  flourish  of  rhetoric  ; 
but  it  is  not  so.  If  well  meditated,  it  will  turn-out 
to  be  a scientific  fact ; the  expression,  in  such  words 
as  can  be  had,  of  the  actual  truth  of  the  thing.  We 
are  the  miracle  of  miracles, — the  great  inscrutable 
mystery  of  God.  We  cannot  understand  it,  we  know 
not  how  to  speak  of  it ; but  we  may  feel  and  know, 
if  we  like,  that  it  is  verily  so. 

Well;  these  truths  were  once  more  readily  felt  than 
now.  The  young  generations  of  the  world,  who  had 
in  them  the  freshness  of  young  children,  and  yet  the 
depth  of  earnest  men,  who  didnotthinkthatthey  had 
finished-off  all  things  in  Heaven  and  Earth  by  merely 
giving  them  scientific  names,  but  had  to  gaze  direct 
at  them  there,  with  awe  and  wonder:  they  felt  better 
what  of  divinity  is  in  man  and  Nature ; — they,  with- 
out being  mad,  could  worship  Nature,  and  man  more 
than  anything  else  in  Nature.  Worship,  that  is,  as 
I said  above,  admire  without  limit : this,  in  the  full 
use  of  their  faculties,  with  all  sincerity  of  heart,  they 
could  do.  I consider  Hero-worship  to  be  the  grand 
modifying  element  in  that  ancient  system  of  thought. 
What  I called  the  perplexed  jungle  of  Paganism  | 
sprang,  we  may  say,  out  of  many  roots : every  ad- 
miration, adoration  of  a star  or  natural  object,  was 
a root  or  fibre  of  a root;  but  Hero-worship  is  the 
deepest  root  of  all ; the  tap-root,  from  which  in  a great 
degree  all  the  rest  were  nourished  and  grown. 

And  now  if  worship  even  of  a star  had  some 
meaning  in  it,  how  much  more  might  that  of  a Hero  ! 
Worship  of  a Hero  is  transcendent  admiration  of  a 
Great  Man.  I say  great  men  are  still  admirable ; I 
say  there  is,  at  bottom,  nothing  else  admirable  ! No 
nobler  feeling  than  this  of  admiration  for  one  higher 
14 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

than  himself  dwells  in  the  breast  of  man.  It  is  to 
this  hour,  and  at  all  hours,  the  vivifying  influence  in 
man’s  life.  Religion  I find  stand  upon  It ; not  Pagan- 
ism only,  but  far  higher  and  truer  religions, — all 
religion  hitherto  known.  Hero-worship,  heartfelt 
prostrate  admiration,  submission,  burning,  bound- 
less for  a noblest  godlike  Form  of  Man, — is  not  that 
the  germ  of  Christianity  itself?  The  greatest  of  all 
Heroes  is  One — whom  we  do  not  name  here ! Let 
sacred  silence  meditate  that  sacred  matter;  you  will 
find  it  the  ultimate  perfection  of  a principle  extant 
throughout  man’s  whole  history  on  earth. 

Or  coming  into  lower,  less  unspeakable  provinces, 
is  not  all  Loyalty  akin  to  religious  Faith  also  ? Faith 
is  loyalty  to  some  inspired  Teacher,  some  spiritual 
Hero.  And  what  therefore  Is  loyalty  proper,  the 
life-breath  of  all  society,  but  an  efiluence  of  Hero- 
worship,  submissive  admiration  for  the  truly  great  ? 
Society  is  founded  on  Hero-worship.  All  dignities 
of  rank,  on  which  human  association  rests,  are  what 
we  may  call  a Heroarchy  (Government  of  Heroes), — 
or  a Hierarchy,  for  it  is  ‘ sacred  ’ enough  withal ! 
Ihe  Duke  means  Dux,  Leader;  King  is  Kon-ning, 
Kan-ning,  Man  that  knows  or  cans.  Society  every- 
where is  some  representation,  not  msupportably  in- 
accurate, of  a graduated  Worship  of  Heroes ; — re- 
verence and  obedience  done  to  men  really  great  and 
wise.  Not  msupportably  inaccurate,  I say  ! They 
are  all  as  bank-notes,  these  social  dignitaries,  all  re- 
presenting gold  ; — and  several  of  them,  alas,  always 
are  forged  notes.  We  can  do  with  some  forged  false 
notes  ; with  a good  many  even  ; but  not  with  all,  or 
the  most  of  them  forged  ! No  ; there  have  to  come 
revolutions  then  ; cries  of  Democracy,  Liberty  and 
Equality,  and  I know  not  what : — the  notes  being  all 
false,  and  no  gold  to  be  had  for  them,  people  take  to 

15 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

crying  in  their  despair  that  there  is  no  gold,  that 
there  never  was  any ! — ‘ Gold,’  Hero-worship,  is 
nevertheless,  as  it  was  always  and  everywhere,  and 
cannot  cease  till  man  himself  ceases, 

I am  well  aware  that  in  these  days  Hero-worship, 
the  thing  I call  Hero-Worship,  professes  to  have 
gone-out,  and  finally  ceased.  This,  for  reasons  which 
it  will  be  worth  while  some  time  to  inquire  into,  is 
an  age  that  as  it  were  denies  the  existence  of  great 
men ; denies  the  desirableness  of  great  men.  Show 
our  critics  a great  man,  a Luther  for  example,  they 
begin  to  what  they  call  ‘ account  ’ for  him ; not  to 
worship  him,  but  take  the  dimensions  of  him, — and 
bring  him  out  to  be  a little  kind  of  man ! He  was  the 
‘ creature  of  the  Time,’  they  say ; the  Time  called 
him  forth,  the  Time  did  everything,  he  nothing — but 
what  we  the  little  critic  could  have  done  too  ! This 
seems  to  me  but  melancholy  work.  The  Time  call 
forth?  Alas,  we  have  known  Times  call  loudly 
enough  for  their  great  man  ; but  not  find  him  when 
they  called ! He  was  not  there ; Providence  had 
not  sent  him  ; the  Time,  calling  its  loudest,  had  to  go 
down  to  confusion  and  wreck  because  he  would  not 
come  when  called.  For  if  we  will  think  of  it,  no 
Time  need  have  gone  to  ruin,  could  it  have  found  a 
man  great  enough,  a man  wise  and  good  enough : 
wisdom  to  discern  truly  what  the  Time  wanted, 
valour  to  lead  it  on  the  right  road  thither ; these  are 
the  salvation  of  any  Time.  But  I liken  common 
languid  Times,  with  their  unbelief,  distress,  per- 
plexity, with  their  languid  doubting  characters  and 
embarrassed  circumstances,  impotently  crumbling- 
down  into  ever  worse  distress  towards  final  ruin  ; — 
all  this  I liken  to  dry  dead  fuel,  waiting  for  the  light- 
ning out  of  Heaven  that  shall  kindle  it.  The  great 
man,  with  his  free  force  direct  out  of  God’s  own 
16 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

hand,  is  the  lightning.  His  word  is  the  wise  healing 
word  which  all  can  believe  in.  All  blazes  round 
him  now,  when  he  has  once  struck  on  it,  into  fire 
like  his  own.  The  dry  mouldering  sticks  are  thought 
to  have  called  him  forth.  They  did  want  him  greatly; 
but  as  to  calling  him  forth — ! — Those  are  critics  of 
small  vision,  I think,  who  cry : “ See,  is  it  not  the 
sticks  that  made  the  fire  ? ’’  No  sadder  proof  can  be 
given  by  a man  of  his  own  littleness  than  disbelief  in 
great  men.  There  is  no  sadder  symptom  of  a genera- 
tion than  such  general  blindness  to  the  spiritual  light- 
ning, with  faith  only  in  the  heap  of  barren  dead 
fuel.  It  is  the  last  consummation  of  unbelief.  In 
all  epochs  of  the  world’s  history,  we  shall  find  the 
Great  Man  to  have  been  the  indispensable  saviour  of 
his  epoch ; — the  lightning,  without  which  the  fuel 
never  would  have  burnt.  The  History  of  the  World, 
I said  already,  was  the  Biography  of  Great  Men. 

Such  small  critics  do  what  they  can  to  promote 
unbelief  and  universal  spiritual  paralysis  ? but  hap- 
pily they  cannot  always  completely  succeed.  In  all 
times  it  is  possible  for  a man  to  arise  great  enough 
to  feel  that  they  and  their  doctrines  are  chimeras 
and  cobwebs.  And  what  is  notable,  in  no  time  what- 
ever can  they  entirely  eradicate  out  of  living  men’s 
hearts  a certain  altogether  peculiar  reverence  for 
Great  Men  ; genuine  admiration,  loyalty,  adoration, 
however  dim  and  perverted  it  may  be.  Hero-wor- 
ship endures  forever  while  man  endures.  Boswell 
venerates  his  Johnson,  right  truly  even  in  the  Eigh- 
teenth century.  The  unbelieving  French  believe  in 
their  Voltaire  ; and  burst- out  round  him  into  very 
curious  Hero-worship,  in  that  last  act  of  his  life, 
when  they  ‘ stifle  him  under  roses.’  It  has  always 
seemed  to  me  extremely  curious  this  of  Voltaire. 
Truly,  if  Christianity  be  the  highest  instance  of 
b 17 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Hero-worship,  then  we  may  find  here  in  Voltairism 
one  of  the  lowest ! He  whose  life  was  that  of  a kind 
of  Antichrist,  does  again  on  this  side  exhibit  a curious 
contrast.  No  people  ever  were  so  little  prone  to  ad- 
mire at  all  as  those  French  of  Voltaire.  Persiflage 
was  the  character  of  their  whole  mind ; adoration 
had  nowhere  a place  in  it.  Yet  see ! The  old  man 
of  Ferney  comes-up  to  Paris;  an  old,  tottering, 
infirm  man  of  eighty-four  years.  They  feel  that  he 
too  is  a kind  of  Hero  ; that  he  has  spent  his  life  in 
opposing  error  and  injustice,  delivering  Calases,  un- 
masking hypocrites  in  high  places ; — in  short  that  he 
too,  though  in  a strange  way,  has  fought  like  a valiant 
man.  They  feel  withal  that,  if  persiflage  be  the  great 
thing,  there  never  was  such  a persifleur.  He  is  the 
realised  ideal  of  every  one  of  them  ; the  thing  they 
are  all  wanting  to  be ; of  all  Frenchmen  the  most 
F rench.  He  is  properly  their  god, — such  god  as  they 
are  fit  for.  Accordingly  all  persons,  from  the  Queen 
Antoinette  to  the  Douanier  at  the  Porte  St.  Denis, 
do  they  not  worship  him  ? People  of  quality  dis- 
guise themselves  as  tavern-waiters.  The  Maitre  de 
Poste,  with  a broad  oath,  orders  his  Postilion : “ Va 
bon  train;  thou  art  driving  M.  de  Voltaire.”  At 
Paris  his  carriage  is  ‘ the  nucleus  of  a comet,  whose 
train  fills  whole  streets.’  The  ladies  pluck  a hair  or 
: two  from  his  fur,  to  keep  it  as  a sacred  relic.  There 
was  nothing  highest,  beautifullest,  noblest  in  all 
I F ranee,  that  did  not  feel  this  man  to  be  higher, 
< beautifuller,  nobler. 

Yes,  from  Norse  Odin  to  English  Samuel  Johnson, 
from  the  divine  Founder  of  Christianity  to  the 
withered  Pontiff  of  Encyclopedism,  in  all  times  and 
places,  the  Hero  has  been  worshiped.  It  will  ever 
be  so.  We  all  love  great  men ; love,  venerate  and 
bow-down  submissive  before  great  men : nay  can  we 
18 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

honestly  bow-down  to  anything  else  ? Ah,  does  not 
every  true  man  feel  that  he  is  himself  made  higher 
by  doing  reverence  to  what  is  really  above  him  ? No  f i 
nobler  or  more  blessed  feeling  dwells  in  man’s  heart.  I * 
And  to  me  it  is  very  cheering  to  consider  that  no 
sceptical  logic,  or  general  triviality,  insincerity  and 
aridity  of  any  Time  and  its  influences  can  destroy 
this  noble  inborn  loyalty  and  worship  that  is  in  man. 

In  times  of  unbelief,  which  soon  have  to  become 
times  of  revolution,  much  down-rushing,  sorrowful 
decay  and  ruin  is  visible  to  everybody.  F or  myself 
in  these  days,  I seem  to  see  in  this  indestructibility 
of  Hero-worship  the  everlasting  adamant  lower  than 
which  the  confused  wreck  of  revolutionary  things 
cannot  fall.  The  confused  wreck  of  things  crumbling 
and  even  crashing  and  tumbling  all  round  us  in  these 
revolutionary  ages,  will  get  down  so  far ; no  farther. 

It  is  an  eternal  corner-stone,  from  which  they  can 
begin  to  build  themselves  up  again.  That  man,  in 
some  sense  or  other,  worships  Heroes  ; that  we  all 
of  us  reverence  and  must  ever  reverence  Great  Men: 
this  is,  to  me,  the  living  rock  amid  all  rushings-down 
whatsoever ; — the  one  fixed  point  in  modern  revo- 
lutionary history,  otherwise  as  if  bottomless  and 
shoreless. 

So  much  of  truth,  only  under  an  ancient  obsolete 
vesture,  but  the  spirit  of  it  still  true,  do  I find  in  the 
Paganism  of  old  nations.  Nature  is  still  divine,  the 
revelation  of  the  workings  of  God  ; the  Hero  is  still 
worshipable : this,  under  poor  cramped  incipient 
forms,  is  what  all  Pagan  religions  have  struggled, 
as  they  could,  to  set-forth.  I think  Scandinavian 
Paganism,  to  us  here,  is  more  interesting  than  any 
other.  It  is,  for  one  thing,  the  latest ; it  continued 
in  these  regions  of  Europe  till  the  eleventh  century  : 

19 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

eight-hundred  years  ago  the  Norwegians  were  still 
worshipers  of  Odin.  It  is  interesting  also  as  the  creed 
of  our  fathers ; the  men  whose  blood  still  runs  in  our 
veins,  whom  doubtless  we  still  resemble  in  so  many 
ways.  Strange : they  did  believe  that,  while  we  be- 
lieve so  differently.  Let  us  look  a little  at  this  poor 
Norse  creed,  for  many  reasons.  We  have  tolerable 
means  to  do  it ; for  there  is  another  point  of  interest 
in  these  Scandinavian  mythologies : that  they  have 
been  preserved  so  well. 

In  that  strange  island  Iceland, — burst-up,  the 
geologists  say,  by  fire  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea ; a 
wild  land  of  barrenness  and  lava ; swallowed  many 
months  of  every  year  in  black  tempests,  yet  with  a 
wild  gleaming  beauty  in  summer-time ; towering  up 
there,  stern  and  grim,  in  the  North  Ocean ; with 
its  snow-jokuls,  roaring  geysers,  sulphur-pools  and 
horrid  volcanic  chasms,  like  the  waste  chaotic  battle- 
field of  F rost  and  F ire ; — where  of  all  places  we  least 
looked  for  Literature  or  written  memorials,  the 
record  of  these  things  was  written  down.  On  the 
seabord  of  this  wild  land  is  a rim  of  grassy  country, 
where  cattle  can  subsist,  and  men  by  means  of  them 
and  of  what  the  sea  yields ; and  it  seems  they  were 
poetic  men  these,  men  who  had  deep  thoughts  in 
them,  and  uttered  musically  their  thoughts.  Much 
would  be  lost  had  Iceland  not  been  burst-up  from  the 
sea,  not  been  discovered  by  the  Northmen ! The  old 
Norse  Poets  were  many  of  them  natives  of  Iceland. 

Saemund,  one  of  the  early  Christian  Priests  there, 
who  perhaps  had  a lingering  fondness  for  Paganism, 
collected  certain  of  their  old  Pagan  songs,  just  about 
becoming  obsolete  then, — Poems  or  Chants  of  a 
mythic,  prophetic,  mostly  all  of  a religious  character: 
that  is  what  Norse  critics  call  the  Elder  or  Poetic 
Edda.  Edda,  a word  of  uncertain  etymology,  is  thought 
20 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

to  signify  Ancestress.  Snorro  Sterleson,  an  Iceland 
gentleman,  an  extremely  notable  personage,  edu- 
cated by  this  Ssemund’s  grandson,  took  in  hand 
next,  near  a century  afterwards,  to  put  together, 
among  several  other  books  he  wrote,  a kind  of 
Prose  Synopsis  of  the  whole  Mythology ; elucidated 
by  new  fragments  of  traditionary  verse.  A work 
constructed  really  with  great  ingenuity,  native 
talent,  what  one  might  call  unconscious  art ; alto- 
gether a perspicuous  clear  work,  pleasant  reading 
still : this  is  the  Younger  or  Prose  Edda.  By  these 
and  the  numerous  other  Sagas,  mostly  Icelandic, 
with  the  commentaries,  Icelandic  or  not,  which  go 
on  zealously  in  the  North  to  this  day,  it  is  possible 
to  gain  some  direct  insight  even  yet ; and  see  that 
old  Norse  system  of  Belief,  as  it  were,  face  to  face. 
Let  us  forget  that  it  is  erroneous  Religion ; let  us 
look  at  it  as  old  Thought,  and  try  if  we  cannot 
sympathise  with  it  somewhat. 

The  primary  characteristic  of  this  old  Northland 
Mythology  I find  to  be  Impersonation  of  the  visible 
workings  of  Nature.  Earnest  simple  recognition  of 
the  workings  of  Physical  Nature,  as  a thing  wholly 
miraculous,  stupendous  and  divine.  What  we  now 
lecture  of  as  Science,  they  wondered  at,  and  fell 
down  in  awe  before,  as  Religion.  The  dark  hostile 
Powers  of  Nature  they  figure  to  themselves  as 
‘jotuns/  Giants,  huge  shaggy  beings  of  a demonic 
character.  Frost,  Fire,  Sea-tempest;  these  are 
Jotuns.  The  friendly  Powers  again,  as  Summer- 
heat,  the  Sun,  are  Gods.  The  empire  of  this  Uni- 
verse is  divided  between  these  two  ; they  dwell 
apart,  in  perennial  internecine  feud.  The  Gods 
dwell  above  in  Asgard,  the  Garden  of  the  Asen  or 
Divinities ; Jotunheim,  a distant  dark  chaotic  land, 
is  the  home  of  the  Jotuns. 


21 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Curious  all  this ; and  not  idle  or  inane,  if  we  will 
look  at  the  foundation  of  it ! The  power  of  Fire,  or 
Flame,  for  instance,  which  we  designate  by  some 
trivial  chemical  name,  thereby  hiding  from  ourselves 
the  essential  character  of  wonder  that  dwells  in  it 
as  in  all  things,  is  with  these  old  Northmen,  Loke, 
a most  swift  subtle  Demon,  of  the  brood  of  the 
Jotuns.  The  savages  of  the  Ladrones  Islands  too 
(say  some  Spanish  voyagers)  thought  Fire,  which 
they  never  had  seen  before,  was  a devil  or  god,  that 
bit  you  sharply  when  you  touched  it,  and  that  lived 
upon  dry  wood.  From  us  too  no  Chemistry,  if  it 
had  not  Stupidity  to  help  it,  would  hide  that  Flame 
is  a wonder.  What  is  Flame  ? — Frost  the  old  Norse 
Seer  discerns  to  be  a monstrous  hoary  Jotun,  the 
Giant  Thrym,  Hrym;  or  Rime,  the  old  word  now 
nearly  obsolete  here,  but  still  used  in  Scotland  to 
signify  hoar-frost.  Rime  was  not  then  as  now  a 
dead  chemical  thing,  but  a living  Jotun  or  Devil; 
the  monstrous  Jotun  Rime  drove  home  his  Horses 
at  night,  sat  ‘ combing  their  manes,’ — which  Horses 
were  Hail-Clouds,  or  fleet  Frost- Winds.  His  Cows — 
No,  not  his,  but  a kinsman’s,  the  Giant  Hymir’s 
Cows  are  Icebergs:  this  Hymir  ‘looks  at  the  rocks’ 
with  his  devil-eye,  and  they  split  in  the  glance 
of  it. 

Thunder  was  not  then  mere  Electricity,  vitreous 
or  resinous  ; it  was  the  God  Donner  (Thunder)  or 
Thor, — God  also  of  beneficent  Summer-heat.  The 
thunder  was  his  wrath  ; the  gathering  of  the  black 
clouds  is  the  drawing-down  of  Thor’s  angry  brows ; 
the  fire-bolt  bursting  out  of  Heaven  is  theall- rending 
Hammer  flung  from  the  hand  of  Thor  : he  urges  his 
loud  chariot  over  the  mountain-tops, — that  is  the 
peal ; wrathful  he  ‘ blows  in  his  red  beard,’ — that 
is  the  rustling  stormblast  before  the  thunder  begin, 
22 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

Balder  again,  the  White  God,  the  beautiful,  the  just 
and  benignant  (whom  the  early  Christian  Mission- 
aries found  to  resemble  Christ),  is  the  Sun, — beauti- 
fullest  of  visible  things ; wondrous  too,  and  divine 
still,  after  all  our  Astronomies  and  Almanacs  ! But 
perhaps  the  notablest  god  we  hear  tell-of  is  one  of 
whom  Grimm  the  German  Etymologist  finds  trace : 
the  God  Wiinsch,  or  Wish.  The  God  Wish;  who 
could  give  us  all  that  we  wished ! Is  not  this  the 
sincerest  and  yet  rudest  voice  of  the  spirit  of  man  ? 
The  rudest  ideal  that  man  ever  formed  ; which  still 
shows  itself  in  the  latest  forms  of  our  spiritual 
culture.  Higher  considerations  have  to  teach  us 
that  the  God  Wish  is  not  the  true  God. 

Of  the  other  Gods  or  Jotuns  I will  mention  only 
for  etymology’s  sake,  that  Sea- tempest  is  the  Jotun 
Aegir,  a very  dangerous  Jotun; — and  now  to  this 
day,  on  our  river  Trent,  as  I learn,  the  Nottingham 
bargemen,  when  the  River  is  in  a certain  flooded 
state  (a  kind  of  backwater,  or  eddying  swirl  it  has, 
very  dangerous  to  them),  call  it  Eager;  they  cry 
out,  “ Have  a care,  there  is  the  Eager  coming ! ” 
Curious ; that  word  surviving,  like  the  peak  of  a 
submerged  world ! The  oldest  Nottingham  barge- 
men had  believed  in  the  God  Aegir.  Indeed  our 
English  blood  too  in  good  part  is  Danish,  Norse ; 
or  rather,  at  bottom,  Danish  and  Norse  and  Saxon 
have  no  distinction,  except  a superficial  one, — as  of 
Heathen  and  Christian,  or  the  like.  But  all  over 
our  Island  we  are  mingled  largely  with  Danes 
proper, — from  the  incessant  invasions  there  were  s 
and  this,  of  course,  in  a greater  proportion  along  the 
east  coast ; and  greatest  of  all,  as  I find,  in  the  North 
Country.  From  the  Humber  upwards,  all  over 
Scotland,  the  Speech  of  the  common  people  is  still 
in  a singular  degree  Icelandic  ; its  Germanism  has 

23 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Still  a peculiar  Norse  tinge.  They  too  are  ‘Nor- 
mans/ Northmen, — if  that  be  any  great  beauty ! — - 
Of  the  chief  god,  Odin,  we  shall  speak  by  and 
by.  Mark  at  present  so  much;  what  the  essence 
of  Scandinavian  and  indeed  of  all  Paganism  is: 
a recognition  of  the  forces  of  Nature  as  godlike, 
stupendous,  personal  Agencies,  — as  Gods  and 
Demons.  Not  inconceivable  to  us.  It  is  the  in- 
fant Thought  of  man  opening  itself,  with  awe  and 
wonder,  on  this  ever-stupendous  Universe.  To  me 
there  is  in  the  Norse  System  something  very 
genuine,  very  great  and  manlike.  A broad  simpli- 
city, rusticity,  so  very  different  from  the  light 
gracefulness  of  the  old  Greek  Paganism,  distin- 
\guishes  this  Scandinavian  System.  It  is  Thought ; 
the  genuine  Thought  of  deep,  rude,  earnest  minds, 
fairly  opened  to  the  things  about  them  ; a face-to- 
face  and  heart-to-heart  inspection  of  the  things, — 
the  first  characteristic  of  all  good  Thought  in  all 
times.  Not  graceful  lightness,  half-sport,  as  in  the 
Greek  Paganism ; a certain  homely  truthfulness 
and  rustic  strength,  a great  rude  sincerity,  discloses 
itself  here.  It  is  strange,  after  our  beautiful  Apollo 
statues  and  clear  smiling  mythuses,  to  come-down 
upon  the  Norse  Gods  ‘ brewing  ale  ’ to  hold  their 
feast  with  Aegir,  the  Sea-Jotun : sending-out  Thor 
to  get  the  cauldron  for  them  in  the  Jotun  country; 
Thor,  after  many  adventures,  clapping  the  Pot  on 
his  head,  like  a huge  hat,  and  walking-off  with  it, — 
quite  lost  in  it,  the  ears  of  the  Pot  reaching  down 
to  his  heels ! A kind  of  vacant  hugeness,  large 
awkward  gianthood,  characterises  that  Norse 
System ; enormous  force,  as  yet  altogether  un- 
tutored, stalking  helpless  with  large  uncertain 
strides.  Consider  only  their  primary  mythus  of 
the  Creation.  The  Gods,  having  got  the  Giant 
24 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

Ymer  slain,  a Giant  made  by  ‘warm  wind,^  and 
much  confused  work,  out  of  the  conflict  of  Frost 
and  Fire, — determined  on  constructing  a world 
with  him.  His  blood  made  the  Sea ; his  flesh  was 
the  Land,  the  Rocks  his  bones ; of  his  eyebrows 
they  formed  Asgard  their  Gods’-dwelling  ; his  skull 
was  the  great  blue  vault  of  Immensity,  and  the 
brains  of  it  became  the  Clouds.  What  a Hyper- 
Brobdignagian  business  ! Untamed  Thought,  great, 
giantlike,  enormous ; — to  be  tamed  in  due  time  into 
the  compact  greatness,  not  giantlike,  but  godlike 
and  stronger  than  gianthood,  of  the  Shakspeares, 
the  Goethes ! — Spiritually  as  well  as  bodily  these 
men  are  our  progenitors. 

I like,  too,  that  representation  they  have  of  the 
Tree  Igdrasil.  All  Life  is  figured  by  them  as  a Tree. 
Igdrasil,  the  Ash- tree  of  Existence,  has  its  roots  deep- 
down  in  the  kingdoms  of  Hela  or  Death  ; its  trunk 
reaches  up  heaven-high,  spreads  its  boughs  over  the 
whole  Universe : it  is  the  Tree  of  Existence.  At  the 
foot  of  it,  in  the  Death-kingdom,  sit  Three  Nornas^ 
Fates, — the  Past,  Present,  Future;  watering  its 
roots  from  the  Sacred  Well.  Its  ‘ boughs,’  with  their 
buddings  and  disleafings, — events,  things  suffered, 
things  done,  catastrophes, — stretch  through  all  lands 
and  times.  Is  not  every  leaf  of  it  a biography,  every 
fibre  there  an  act  or  word  ? Its  boughs  are  Histories 
of  Nations.  The  rustle  of  it  is  the  noise  of  Human 
Existence,  onwards  from  of  old.  It  grows  there,  the 
breath  of  Human  Passion  rustling  through  it ; — or 
stormtost,  the  storm  wind  howling  through  it  like  the 
voice  of  all  the  gods.  It  is  Igdrasil,  the  Tree  of  Exist- 
ence. It  is  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future ; 
what  was  done, what  is  doing, what  will  be  done ; ‘the 
infinite  conjugation  of  the  verb  To  do.^  Considering 
how  human  things  circulate,  each  inextricably  in 

25 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

communion  with  all, — how  the  word  I speak  to  you 
to-day  is  borrowed,  not  from  Ulfila  the  Moesogoth 
only,  but  from  all  men  since  the  first  man  began 
to  speak, — I find  no  similitude  so  true  as  this  of 
|a  Tree.  Beautiful ; altogether  beautiful  and  great. 
jThe  ‘ Machine  of  the  Universe,’ — alas,  do  but  think 
of  that  in  contrast ! ^ 

Well,  it  is  strange  enough  this  old  Norse  view  of 
Nature ; different  enough  from  what  we  believe  of 
Nature.  Whence  it  specially  came,  one  would  not 
like  to  be  compelled  to  say  very  minutely ! One 
thing  we  may  say : It  came  from  the  thoughts  of 
Norse  men ; — from  the  thought,  above  all,  of  the  first 
Norse  man  who  had  an  original  power  of  thinking. 
The  First  Norse  ^man  of  genius,’  as  we  should  call 
him  ! Innumerable  men  had  passed  by,  across  this 
Universe,  with  a dumb  vague  wonder,  such  as  the 
very  animals  may  feel ; or  with  a painful,  fruitlessly 
inquiring  wonder,  such  as  men  only  feel ; — till  the 
great  Thinker  came,  the  original  man,  the  Seer; 
whose  shaped  spoken  Thought  awakes  the  slumber- 
ing capability  of  all  into  Thought.  It  is  ever  the  way 
with  the  Thinker,  the  spiritual  Hero.  What  he  says, 
all  men  were  not  far  from  saying,  were  longing  to 
say.  The  Thoughts  of  all  start  up,  as  from  painful 
enchanted  sleep,  round  his  Thought ; answering  to 
it.  Yes,  even  so!  Joyful  to  men  as  the  dawning  of 
day  from  night ; — is  it  not,  indeed,  the  awakening 
for  them  from  no-being  into  being,  from  death  into 
life  ? We  still  honour  such  a man ; call  him  Poet, 
Genius,  and  so  forth  : but  to  these  wild  men  he  was 
a very  magician,  a worker  of  miraculous  unexpected 
blessing  for  them;  a Prophet,  a God! — Thought  once 
awakened  does  not  again  slumber ; unfolds  itself 
into  a System  of  Thought ; grows,  in  man  after  man, 
26 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

generation  after  generation, — till  its  full  stature  is 
reached,  and  such  System  of  Thought  can  grow  no 
farther,  but  must  give  place  to  another. 

For  the  Norse  people,  the  Man  now  named  Odin, 
and  Chief  Norse  God,  we  fancy,  was  such  a man. 
A Teacher,  and  Captain  of  soul  and  of  body ; a Hero, 
of  worth  immeasurable ; admiration  for  whom,  tran- 
scending the  known  bounds,  became  adoration.  Has 
he  not  the  power  of  articulate  Thinking ; and  many 
other  powers,  as  yet  miraculous  ? So,  with  bound- 
less gratitude,  would  the  rude  Norse  heart  feel.  Has 
he  not  solved  for  them  the  sphinx-enigma  of  this 
Universe ; given  assurance  to  them  of  their  own 
destiny  there  ? By  him  they  know  now  what  they 
have  to  do  here,  what  to  look  for  hereafter.  Exist- 
ence has  become  articulate,  melodious  by  him  ; he 
first  has  made  Life  alive  ! — We  may  call  this  Odin, 
the  origin  of  Norse  Mythology : Odin,  or  whatever 
name  the  First  Norse  Thinker  bore  while  he  was  a 
man  among  men.  His  view  of  the  Universe  once 
promulgated,  a like  view  starts  into  being  in  all 
minds ; grows,  keeps  ever  growing,  while  it  continues 
credible  there.  In  all  minds  it  lay  written,  but  in- 
visibly, as  in  sympathetic  ink ; at  his  word  it  starts 
into  visibility  in  all.  Nay,  in  every  epoch  of  the 
world,  the  great  event,  parent  of  all  others,  is  it  not 
the  arrival  of  a Thinker  in  the  world  ! — 

One  other  thing  we  must  not  forget ; it  will  ex- 
plain, a little,  the  confusion  of  these  Norse  Eddas. 
They  are  not  one  coherent  System  of  Thought ; but 
properly  the  summation  of  several  successive  systems. 
All  this  of  the  old  Norse  Belief  which  is  flung-out  for 
us,  in  one  level  of  distance  in  the  Edda,  like  a picture 
painted  on  the  same  canvas,  does  not  at  all  stand  so 
in  the  reality.  It  stands  rather  at  all  manner  of  dis- 
tances and  depths,  of  successive  generations  since 

27 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

the  Belief  first  began.  All  Scandinavian  thinkers, 
since  the  first  of  them,  contributed  to  that  Scandi- 
navian System  of  Thought ; in  ever-new  elaboration 
and  addition,  it  is  the  combined  work  of  them  all. 
What  history  it  had,  how  it  changed  from  shape  to 
shape,  by  one  thinker’s  contribution  after  another, 
till  it  got  to  the  full  final  shape  we  see  it  under  in  the 
Edda^  no  man  will  now  ever  know : its  Councils  of 
Trebisond,  Councils  of  Trent,  Athanasiuses,  Dantes, 
Luthers,  are  sunk  without  echo  in  the  dark  night ! 
Only  that  it  had  such  a history  we  can  all  know. 
Wheresoever  a thinker  appeared,  there  in  the  thing 
he  thought-of  was  a contribution,  accession,  a change 
or  revolution  made.  Alas,  the  grandest  ‘ revolution  * 
of  all,  the  one  made  by  the  man  Odin  himself,  is  not 
this  too  sunk  for  us  like  the  rest ! Of  Odin  what  his- 
tory ? Strange  rather  to  reflect  that  he  had  a history  ! 
That  this  Odin,  in  his  wild  Norse  vesture,  with  his 
wild  beard  and  eyes,  his  rude  Norse  speech  and  ways, 
was  a man  like  us ; with  our  sorrows,  joys,  with  our 
limbs,  features ; — intrinsically  all  one  as  we : and  did 
such  a work ! But  the  work,  much  of  it,  has  perished ; 
the  worker,  all  to  the  name.  “ Wednesday,”  men  will 
say  to-morrow ; Odin’s  day  ! Of  Odin  there  exists 
no  history ; no  document  of  it ; no  guess  about  it 
worth  repeating. 

Snorro  indeed,  in  the  quietest  manner,  almost  In 
a brief  business  style,  writes  down,  in  his  Heims- 
kringla,  how  Odin  was  a heroic  Prince,  in  the  Black- 
Sea  region,  with  Twelve  Peers,  and  a great  people 
straitened  for  room.  How  he  led  these  Asen  (Asia- 
tics) of  his  out  of  Asia ; settled  them  In  the  North 
parts  of  Europe,  by  warlike  conquest ; invented 
Letters,  Poetry  and  so  forth, — and  came  by  and  by 
to  be  worshiped  as  Chief  God  by  these  Scandina- 
vians, his  Twelve  Peers  made  into  Twelve  Sons  of 
28 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

his  own,  Gods  like  himself : Snorro  has  no  doubt  or 
this.  Saxo  Grammaticus,  a very  curious  Northman 
of  that  same  century,  is  still  more  unhesitating; 
scruples  not  to  find-out  a historical  fact  in  every  in- 
dividual mythus,  and  writes  it  down  as  a terrestrial 
event  in  Denmark  or  elsewhere.  Torfaeus,  learned 
and  cautious,  some  centuries  later,  assigns  by  calcu- 
lation a date  for  it : Odin,  he  says,  came  into  Europe 
about  the  Year  70  before  Christ.  Of  all  which,  as 
grounded  on  mere  uncertainties,  found  to  be  unten- 
able now,  I need  say  nothing.  Far,  very  far  beyond 
the  Year  70 ! Odin’s  date,  adventures,  whole  terres- 
trial history,  figure  and  environment,  are  sunk  from 
us  forever  into  unknown  thousands  of  years. 

Nay  Grimm,  the  German  Antiquary,  goes  so  far 
as  to  deny  that  any  man  Odin  ever  existed.  He 
proves  it  by  etymology.  The  word  Wuotan,  which 
is  the  original  form  of  Odin,  a word  spread,  as  name 
of  their  chief  Divinity,  over  all  the  Teutonic  Nations 
everywhere ; this  word,  which  connects  itself,  ac- 
cording to  Grimm,  with  the  Latin  vadere,  with  the 
English  wade  and  such  like, — means  primarily  Move- 
ment, Source  of  Movement,  Power ; and  is  the  fit 
name  of  the  highest  god,  not  of  any  man.  The  word 
signifies  Divinity,  he  says,  among  the  old  Saxon, 
German  and  all  Teutonic  Nations ; the  adjectives 
formed  from  it  all  signify  divine,  supreme,  or  some- 
thing pertaining  to  the  chief  god.  Like  enough  ! We 
must  bow  to  Grimm  in  matters  etymological.  Let 
us  consider  it  fixed  that  Wuotan  means  Wading,  force 
of  Movement.  And  now  still,  what  hinders  it  from 
being  the  name  of  a Heroic  Man  and  Mover,  as  well 
as  of  a god  ? As  for  the  adjectives,  and  words  formed 
from  it, — did  not  the  Spaniards  in  their  universal 
admiration  for  Lope,  get  into  the  habit  of  saying  * a 
Lope  flower,^  ‘ a Lope  dama,^  if  the  flower  or  woman 

29 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

were  of  surpassing  beauty  ? Had  this  lasted,  Lope 
would  have  grown,  in  Spain,  to  be  an  adjective  signi- 
fying  godlike  also.  Indeed  Adam  Smith,  in  his  Essay 
on  Language,  surmises  that  all  adjectives  whatsoever 
were  formed  precisely  in  that  way : some  very  green 
thing,  chiefly  notable  for  its  greenness,  got  the  appel- 
lative name  Green,  and  then  the  next  thing  remark- 
able for  that  quality,  a tree  for  instance,  was  named 
the  green  tree, — as  we  still  say  ‘ the  steam  coach,’ 
‘four-horse  coach,’  or  the  like.  All  primary  adjec- 
tives, according  to  Smith,  were  formed  in  this  way ; 
were  at  first  substantives  and  things.  We  cannot 
annihilate  a man  for  etymologies  like  that ! Surely 
there  was  a First  Teacher  and  Captain;  surely  there 
must  have  been  an  Odin,  palpable  to  the  sense  at 
one  time ; no  adjective,  but  a real  Hero  of  flesh  and, 
blood ! The  voice  of  all  tradition,  history  or  echo  of’ 
history,  agrees  with  all  that  thought  will  teach  one 
about  it,  to  assure  us  of  this. 

How  the  man  Odin  came  to  be  considered  a god, 
the  chief  god  ? — that  surely  is  a question  which  no- 
body would  wish  to  dogmatise  upon.  I have  said,  his 
people  knew  no  limits  to  their  admiration  of  him ; 
they  had  as  yet  no  scale  to  measure  admiration  by. 
Fancy  your  own  generous  heart’s-love  of  some 
greatest  man  expanding  till  it  transcended  all  bounds, 
till  it  filled  and  overflowed  the  whole  field  of  your 
thought ! Or  what  if  this  man  Odin, — since  a great 
deep  soul,  with  the  afflatus  and  mysterious  tide  of 
vision  and  impulse  rushing  on  him  he  knows  not 
whence,  is  ever  an  enigma,  a kind  of  terror  and 
j wonder  to  himself, — should  have  felt  that  perhaps 
he  was  divine ; that  he  was  some  effluence  of  the 
‘Wuotan,^  ^Movement/  Supreme  Power  and  Divi- 
nity, of  whom  to  his  rapt  vision  all  Nature  was  the 
awful  Flame-image ; that  some  effluence  of  Wuotan 
30 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

dwelt  here  in  him  ! He  was  not  necessarily  false ; 
he  was  but  mistaken,  speaking  the  truest  he  knew. 
A great  soul,  any  sincere  soul,  knows  not  what  he 
is, — alternates  between  the  highest  height  and  the 
lowest  depth  ; can,  of  all  things,  the  least  measure 
— Himself!  What  others  take  him  for,  and  what  he 
guesses  that  he  may  be ; these  two  items  strangely 
act  on  one  another,  help  to  determine  one  another. 
With  all  men  reverently  admiring  him ; with  his 
own  wild  soul  full  of  noble  ardours  and  affections, 
of  whirlwind  chaotic  darkness  and  glorious  new 
light;  a divine  Universe  bursting  all  into  godlike 
beauty  round  him,  and  no  man  to  whom  the  like 
ever  had  befallen,  what  could  he  think  himself  to 
be?  “Wuotan?”  All  men  answered,  “Wuotan!” — 
And  then  consider  what  mere  Time  will  do  in 
such  cases ; how  if  a man  was  great  while  living,  he  be- 
comes tenfold  greater  when  dead.  What  an  enormous 
camera-obscura  magnifier  is  Tradition  ! How  a thing 
grows  in  the  human  Memory,  in  the  human  Imagi- 
nation, when  Iwe,  worship  and  all  that  lies  in  the 
human  Heart,  is  there  to  encourage  it.  And  in  the 
darkness,  in  the  entire  ignorance ; without  date  or 
document,  no  book,  no  Arundel-marble  ; only  here 
and  there  some  dumb  monumental  cairn.  Why,  in 
thirty  or  forty  years,  were  there  no  books,  any  great 
man  would  grow  mythic,  the  contemporarieswho  had 
seen  him,  being  once  all  dead.  And  in  three-hundred 
years,  and  in  three-thousand  years — ! — To  attempt 
theorising  on  such  matters  would  profit  little : they 
are  matters  which  refuse  to  be  theoremed  and  dia- 
gramed ; which  Logic  ought  to  know  that  she  cannot 
speak  of.  Enough  for  us  to  discern,  far  in  the  utter- 
most distance,  some  gleam  as  of  a small  real  light 
shining  in  the  centre  of  that  enormous  camera- 
obscura  image  ; to  discern  that  the  centre  of  it  all 

3L 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

was  not  a madness  and  nothing,  but  a sanity  and 
something. 

This  light,  kindled  in  the  great  dark  vortex  of  the 
Norse  Mind,  dark  but  living,  waiting  only  for  light ; 
this  is  to  me  the  centre  of  the  whole.  How  such  light 
will  then  shine-out,  and  with  wondrous  thousand- 
fold expansion  spread  itself,  in  forms  and  colours, 
depends  not  on  iU  so  much  as  on  the  National  Mind 
recipient  of  it.  The  colours  and  forms  of  your  light 
will  be  those  of  the  cut-glass  it  has  to  shine  through. 
— Curious  to  think  how,  for  every  man,  any  the 
truest  fact  is  modelled  by  the  nature  of  the  man  ! I 
said.  The  earnest  man,  speaking  to  his  brother  men, 
must  always  have  stated  what  seemed  to  him  a fact, 
a real  Appearance  of  Nature.  But  the  way  in  which 
such  Appearance  or  fact  shaped  itself, — what  sort 
of  fact  it  became  for  him, — was  and  is  modified  by 
his  own  laws  of  thinking ; deep,  subtle,  but  universal, 
ever-operating  laws.  The  world  of  Nature,  for  every 
man,  is  the  Fantasy  of  Himself;  this  world  is  the 
multiplex  ‘ Image  of  his  own  Dream.’  Who  knows 
to  what  unnameable  subtleties  of  spiritual  law  all 
these  Pagan  Fables  owe  their  shape ! The  number 
Twelve,  divisiblest  of  all,  which  could  be  halved, 
quartered,  parted  into  threei  into  six^  the  most  re- 
markable number, — this  was  enough  to  determine 
the  Signs  of  the  Zodiac,  the  number  of  Odin’s  Sons, 
and  innumerable  other  Twelves.  Any  vague  rumour 
of  number  had  a tendency  to  settle  itself  into  Twelve. 
So  with  regard  to  every  other  matter.  And  quite 
unconsciously  too, — with  no  notion  of  building-up 
‘ Allegories ! * But  the  fresh  clear  glance  of  those 
First  Ages  would  be  prompt  in  discerning  the  secret 
relations  of  things,  and  wholly  open  to  obey  these. 
Schiller  finds  in  the  Cestus  of  Venus  an  everlasting  aes- 
thetic truth  as  to  the  nature  of  all  Beauty;  curious  2 — 
32 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

but  he  is  careful  not  to  insinuate  that  the  old 
Greek  Mythists  had  any  notion  of  lecturing  about 

the  ‘ Philosophy  of  Criticism  ! ’ On  the  whole, 

we  must  leave  those  boundless  regions.  Cannot  we 
conceive  that  Odin  was  a reality  ? Error  indeed, 
error  enough  ; but  sheer  falsehood,  idle  fables,  alle- 
gory aforethought, — we  will  not  believe  that  our 
Fathers  believed  in  these. 

Odin’s  Runes  are  a significant  feature  of  him. 
Runes,  and  the  miracles  of  ‘ magic  ’ he  worked  by 
them,  make  a great  feature  in  tradition.  Runes  are 
the  Scandinavian  Alphabet ; suppose  Odin  to  have 
been  the  inventor  of  Letters,  as  well  as  ‘magic,’ 
among  that  people  ! It  is  the  greatest  invention  man 
has  ever  made,  this  of  marking- down  the  unseen 
thought  that  is  in  him  by  written  characters.  It  is 
a kind  of  second  speech,  almost  as  miraculous  as  the 
first.  You  remember  the  astonishment  and  incre- 
dulity of  Atahualpa  the  Peruvian  King;  how  he 
made  the  Spanish  Soldier  who  was  guarding  him 
scratch  Dios  on  his  thumb-nail,  that  he  might  try  the 
next  soldier  with  it,  to  ascertain  whether  such  a 
miracle  was  possible.  If  Odin  brought  Letters  among 
his  people,  he  might  work  magic  enough  ! 

Writing  by  Runes  has  some  air  of  being  original 
among  the  Norsemen : not  a Phenician  Alphabet, 
but  a native  Scandinavian  one.  Snorro  tells  us  far- 
ther that  Odin  invented  Poetry ; the  music  of  human 
speech,  as  well  as  that  miraculous  runic  marking 
of  it.  Transport  yourselves  into  the  early  childhood 
of  nations;  the  first  beautiful  morning-light  of  our 
Europe,  when  all  yet  lay  in  fresh  young  radiance 
as  of  a great  sunrise,  and  our  Europe  was  first  ^ 
beginning  to  think,  to  be  ! Wonder,  hope  ; infinite 
radiance  of  hope  and  wonder,  as  of  a young  child^s 
c 33 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

thoughts,  in  the  hearts  of  these  strong  men ! Strong 
sons  of  Nature ; and  here  was  not  only  a wild  Cap- 
tain and  Fighter;  discerning  with  his  wild  flashing 
eyes  what  to  do,  with  his  wild  lion-heart  daring  and 
doing  it ; but  a Poet  too,  all  that  we  mean  by  a Poet, 
Prophet,  great  devout  Thinker  and  Inventor, — as 
the  truly  Great  Man  ever  Is.  A Hero  is  a Hero  at 
all  points ; In  the  soul  and  thought  of  him  first  of 
all.  This  Odin,  in  his  rude  seml-articulate  way,  had 
a word  to  speak.  A great  heart  laid  open  to  take  In 
this  great  Universe,  and  man’s  Life  here,  and  utter 
a great  word  about  It.  A Hero,  as  I say,  in  his  own 
rude  manner;  a wise,  gifted,  noble-hearted  man. 
And  now,  if  we  still  admire  such  a man  beyond 
all  others,  what  must  these  wild  Norse  souls,  first 
awakened  Into  thinking,  have  made  of  him ! To 
them,  as  yet  without  names  for  it,  he  was  noble  and 
noblest ; Hero,  Prophet,  God ; Wuotan,  the  greatest 
of  all.  Thought  Is  Thought,  however  it  speak  or  spell 
itself.  Intrinsically,  I conjecture,  this  Odin  must 
have  been  of  the  same  sort  of  stuff*  as  the  greatest 
kind  of  men.  A great  thought  in  the  wild  deep  heart 
of  him  ! The  rough  words  he  articulated,  are  they 
not  the  rudimental  roots  of  those  English  words  we 
still  use  ? He  worked  so,  in  that  obscure  element. 
But  he  was  as  a light  kindled  in  it ; a light  of 
Intellect,  rude  Nobleness  of  heart,  the  only  kind 
of  lights  we  have  yet ; a Hero,  as  I say : and  he 
had  to  shine  there,  and  make  his  obscure  element  a 
little  lighter, — as  is  still  the  task  of  us  all. 

We  will  fancy  him  to  be  the  Type  Norseman ; 
the  finest  Teuton  whom  that  race  had  yet  pro- 
duced. The  rude  Norse  heart  burst-up  into  bound- 
less admiration  round  him ; into  adoration.  He  is 
as  a root  of  so  many  great  things  ; the  fruit  of  him 
is  found  growing,  from  deep  thousands  of  years, 
34 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

over  the  whole  field  of  Teutonic  Life.  Our  own 
Wednesday,  as  I said,  is  it  not  still  Odin’s  Day  ? 
Wednesbury,  Wansborough,  Wanstead,  Wands- 
worth ; Odin  grew  into  England  too,  these  are  still 
leaves  from  that  root ! He  was  the  Chief  God  to  all 
the  Teutonic  Peoples;  their  Pattern  Norseman; — 
in  such  way  did  they  admire  their  Pattern  Norse- 
man ; that  was  the  fortune  he  had  in  the  world. 

Thus  if  the  man  Odin  himself  have  vanished 
utterly,  there  is  this  huge  Shadow  of  him  which 
still  projects  itself  over  the  whole  History  of  his 
People.  For  this  Odin  once  admitted  to  be  God^ 
we  can  understand  well  that  the  whole  Scandina- 
vian Scheme  of  Nature,  or  dim  No-scheme,  what- 
ever it  might  before  have  been,  would  now  begin 
to  develop  itself  altogether  differently,  and  grow 
thenceforth  in  a new  manner.  What  this  Odin  saw 
into,  and  taught  with  his  runes  and  his  rhymes,  the 
whole  Teutonic  People  laid  to  heart  and  carried 
forward.  His  way  of  thought  became  their  way 
of  thought: — such,  under  new  conditions,  is  the 
history  of  every  great  thinker  still.  In  gigantic 
confused  lineaments,  like  some  enormous  camera- 
obscura  shadow  thrown  upwards  from  the  dead 
deeps  of  the  Past,  and  covering  the  whole  Northern 
Heaven,  is  not  that  Scandinavian  Mythology  in 
some  sort  the  Portraiture  of  this  man  Odin  ? The 
gigantic  image  of  his  natural  face,  legible  or  not 
legible  there,  expanded  and  confused  in  that  man- 
ner ! Ah,  Thought,  I say,  is  always  Thought.  No 
great  man  lives  in  vain.  The  History  of  the  world 
is  but  the  Biography  of  great  men. 

To  me  there  is  something  very  touching  in  this 
primeval  figure  of  Heroism  ; in  such  artless,  help- 
less, but  hearty  entire  reception  of  a Hero  by  his 
fellow-men.  Never  so  helpless  in  shape,  it  is  the 

35 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

noblest  of  feelings,  and  a feeling  in  some  shape  or 
other  perennial  as  man  himself.  If  I could  show  in 
any  measure,  what  I feel  deeply  for  a long  time 
now.  That  it  is  the  vital  element  of  manhood,  the 
soul  of  man’s  history  here  in  our  world, — it  would 
be  the  chief  use  of  this  discoursing  at  present.  We 
do  not  now  call  our  great  men  Gods,  nor  admire 
without  limit ; ah  no,  with  limit  enough  ! But  if  we 
have  no  great  men,  or  do  not  admire  at  all, — that 
were  a still  worse  case. 

This  poor  Scandinavian  Hero-worship,  that  whole 
Norse  way  of  looking  at  the  Universe,  and  adjust- 
ing oneself  there,  has  an  indestructible  merit  for 
us.  A rude  childlike  way  of  recognising  the  divine- 
ness of  Nature,  the  divineness  of  Man  ; most  rude, 
yet  heartfelt,  robust,  giantlike ; betokening  what  a 
giant  of  a man  this  child  would  yet  grow  to  ! — It 
was  a truth,  and  is  none.  Is  it  not  as  the  half-dumb 
stifled  voice  of  the  long-buried  generations  of  our 
own  Fathers,  calling  out  of  the  depths  of  ages  to 
us,  in  whose  veins  their  blood  still  runs  : ‘‘  This 
then,  this  is  what  we  made  of  the  world  : this  is  all 
the  image  and  notion  we  could  form  to  ourselves 
of  this  great  mystery  of  a Life  and  Universe. 
Despise  it  not.  You  are  raised  high  above  it,  to 
large  free  scope  of  vision  ; but  you  too  are  not  yet 
at  the  top.  No,  your  notion  too,  so  much  enlarged, 
is  but  a partial,  imperfect  one  ; that  matter  is  a 
thing  no  man  will  ever,  in  time  or  out  of  time,  com- 
prehend ; after  thousands  of  years  of  ever-new  ex- 
pansion, man  will  find  himself  but  struggling  to  com- 
prehend again  a part  of  it : the  thing  is  larger  than 
man,  not  to  be  comprehended  by  him  ; an  Infinite 
thing ! ” 


36 


The  essence  of  the  Scandinavian,  as  indeed  of  all 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

Pagan  Mythologies,  we  found  to  be  recognition  of 
the  divineness  of  Nature ; sincere  communion  of 
man  with  the  mysterious  invisible  Powers  visibly 
seen  at  work  in  the  world  round  him.  This,  I should 
say,  is  more  sincerely  done  in  the  Scandinavian  than 
in  any  Mythology  I know.  Sincerity  is  the  great 
characteristic  of  it.  Superior  sincerity  (far  superior) 
consoles  us  for  the  total  want  of  old  Grecian  grace. 
Sincerity,  I think,  is  better  than  grace.  I feel  that 
these  old  Northmen  were  looking  into  Nature  with 
open  eye  and  soul : most  earnest,  honest ; childlike, 
and  yet  manlike ; with  a great-hearted  simplicity 
and  depth  and  freshness,  in  a true,  loving,  admiring, 
unfearing  way.  A right  valiant,  true  old  race  of  men. 
Such  recognition  of  Nature  one  finds  to  be  the  chief 
element  of  Paganism : recognition  of  Man,  and  his 
Moral  Duty,  though  this  too  is  not  wanting,  comes 
to  be  the  chief  element  only  in  purer  forms  of  reli- 
gion. Here,  indeed,  is  a great  distinction  and  epoch 
in  Human  Beliefs ; a great  landmark  in  the  religious 
development  of  Mankind.  Man  first  puts  himself  in 
relation  with  Nature  and  her  Powers,  wonders  and 
worships  over  those ; not  till  a later  epoch  does  he 
discern  that  all  Power  is  Moral,  that  the  grand  point 
is  the  distinction  for  him  of  Good  and  Evil,  of  Thou 
shalt  and  Thou  shalt  not. 

With  regard  to  all  these  fabulous  delineations  in 
the  Edda,  I will  remark,  moreover,  as  indeed  was 
already  hinted,  that  most  probably  they  must  have 
been  of  much  newer  date ; most  probably,  even  from 
the  first,  were  comparatively  idle  for  the  old  Norse- 
men, and  as  it  were  a kind  of  Poetic  sport.  Allegory 
and  Poetic  Delineation,  as  I said  above,  cannot  be 
religious  Faith  ; the  Faith  itself  must  first  be  there, 
then  Allegory  enough  will  gather  round  it,  as  the 
fit  body  round  its  soul.  The  Norse  Faith,  I can  well 

37 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

suppose,  like  other  Faiths,  was  most  active  while  it 
lay  mainly  in  the  silent  state,  and  had  not  yet  much 
to  say  about  itself,  still  less  to  sing. 

Among  those  shadowy  Edda  matters,  amid  all  that 
fantastic  congeries  of  assertions,  and  traditions,  in 
their  musical  Mythologies,  the  main  practical  belief 
a m an  could  have  was  probably  not  much  more  than 
this  : of  the  Valkyrs  and  the  Hall  of  Odin  ; of  an  in- 
flexible Destiny;  and  that  the  one  thing  needful  for 
a man  was  to  be  brave.  The  Valkyrs  are  Choosers 
of  the  Slain  : a Destiny  inexorable,  which  it  is  use- 
less trying  to  bend  or  soften,  has  appointed  who  is 
to  be  slain ; this  was  a fundamental  point  for  the 
Norse  believer; — as  indeed  it  is  for  all  earnest  men 
everywhere,  for  a Mahomet,  a Luther,  for  a Napo- 
leon too.  It  lies  at  the  basis  this  for  every  such  man ; 
it  is  the  woof  out  of  which  his  whole  system  of  thought 
is  woven.  The  Valkyrs;  and  then  that  these  Choosers 
lead  the  brave  to  a heavenly  Hall  of  Odin  ; only  the 
base  and  slavish  being  thrust  elsewhither,  into  the 
realms  of  Hela  the  Death-goddess : I take  this  to 
have  been  the  soul  of  the  whole  Norse  Belief.  They 
understood  in  their  heart  that  it  was  indispensable 
to  be  brave ; that  Odin  would  have  no  favour  for 
them,  but  despise  and  thrust  them  out,  if  they  were 
not  brave.  Consider  too  whether  there  is  not  some- 
. thing  in  this  !''/It  is  an  everlasting  duty,  valid  in  our 
\ I \ day  as  in  that,  the  duty  of  being  brave.^'^  Valour  is  still 
value.  The  first  duty  for  a man  is  still  that  of  sub- 
duing Fear.  We  must  get  rid  of  Fear  ; we  cannot  act 
I at  all  till  then.  A man’s  acts  are  slavish,  not  true  but 
specious  ; his  very  thoughts  are  false,  he  thinks  too 
I as  a slave  and  coward,  till  he  have  got  Fear  under 
; his  feet.  Odin’s  creed,  if  we  disentangle  the  real 
kernel  of  it,  is  true  to  this  hour.  A man  shall  and 
I must  be  valiant ; he  must  march  forward,  and  quit 
38 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

himself  like  a man, — trusting  imperturbably  in  the 
appointment  and  choice  of  the  upper  Powers ; and, 
on  the  whole,  not  fear  at  all.  Now  and  always,  the 
completeness  of  his  victory  over  Fear  will  deter- 
mine how  much  of  a man  he  is.^ 

It  is  doubtless  very  savage  that  kind  of  valour  of 
the  old  Northmen.  Snorro  tells  us  they  thought  it 
a shame  and  misery  not  to  die  in  battle ; and  if 
natural  death  seemed  to  be  coming-on,  they  would 
cut  wounds  in  their  flesh,  that  Odin  might  receive 
them  as  warriors  slain.  Old  kings,  about  to  die,  had 
their  body  laid  into  a ship ; the  ship  sent-forth,  with 
sails  set  and  slow  fire  burning  it ; that,  once  out  at 
sea,  it  might  blaze-up  in  flame,  and  in  such  manner 
bury  worthily  the  old  hero,  at  once  in  the  sky  and 
in  the  ocean  ! Wild  bloody  valour ; yet  valour  of  its 
kind ; better,  I say,  than  none.  In  the  old  Sea-kings 
too,  what  an  indomitable  rugged  energy ! Silent, 
with  closed  lips,  as  I fancy  them,  unconscious  that 
they  were  specially  brave ; defying  the  wild  ocean 
with  its  monsters,  and  all  men  and  things ; — pro- 
genitors of  our  own  Blakes  and  Nelsons ! No  Homer 
sang  these  Norse  Sea-kings ; but  Agamemnon’s  was 
a small  audacity,  and  of  small  fruit  in  the  world, 
to  some  of  them  ; — to  Hrolf  s of  Normandy,  for  in- 
stance ! Hrolf,  or  Rollo  Duke  of  Normandy,  the 
wild  Sea-king,  has  a share  in  governing  England  at 
this  hour. 

Nor  was  it  altogether  nothing,  even  that  wild  sea- 
roving and  battling,  through  so  many  generations.  It 
needed  to  be  ascertained  which  was  the  strongest  kind 
of  men  ; who  were  to  be  ruler  over  whom.  Among 
the  Northland  Sovereigns,  too,  I find  some  who  got 
the  title  Wood-cutter;  Forest-felling  Kings.  Much 
lies  in  that.  I suppose  at  bottom  many  of  them  were 
forest-fellers  as  well  as  fighters,  though  the  Skalds 

39 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

talk  mainly  of  the  latter, — misleading  certain  critics 
not  a little ; for  no  nation  of  men  could  ever  live  by 
fighting  alone ; there  could  not  produce  enough 
come  out  of  that ! I suppose  the  right  good  fighter 
was  oftenest  also  the  right  good  forest-feller, — the 
right  good  improver,  discerner,  doer  and  worker  in 
every  kind ; for  true  valour,  different  enough  from 
ferocity,  is  the  basis  of  all.  A more  legitimate  kind 
of  valour  that ; showing  itself  against  the  untamed 
Forests  and  dark  brute  Powers  of  Nature,  to  con- 
quer Nature  for  us.  In  the  same  direction  have  not 
we  their  descendants  since  carried  it  far  ? May  such 
valour  last  forever  with  us  ! 

That  the  man  Odin,  speaking  with  a Hero’s  voice 
and  heart,  as  with  an  impressiveness  out  of  Heaven, 
told  his  People  the  infinite  importance  of  Valour, 
how  man  thereby  became  a god ; and  that  his  People, 
feeling  a response  to  it  in  their  own  hearts,  believed 
this  message  of  his,  and  thought  it  a message  out  of 
Heaven,  and  him  a Divinity  for  telling  it  them : this 
seems  to  me  the  primary  seed-grain  of  the  Norse 
Religion,  from  which  all  manner  of  mythologies, 
symbolic  practices,  speculations,  allegories,  songs 
and  sagas  would  naturally  grow.  Grow, — how 
strangely ! I called  it  a small  light  shining  and 
shaping  in  the  huge  vortex  of  Norse  darkness.  Yet 
the  darkness  itself  was  alive;  consider  that.  It  was 
the  eager  inarticulate  uninstructed  Mind  of  the 
whole  Norse  People,  longing  only  to  become  articu- 
late, to  go  on  articulating  ever  farther ! The  living 
doctrine  grows,  grows ; — like  a Banyan-tree  ; the 
first  seed  is  the  essential  thing  : any  branch  strikes 
itself  down  into  the  earth,  becomes  a new  root ; and 
so,  in  endless  complexity,  we  have  a whole  wood, 
a whole  jungle,  one  seed  the  parent  of  it  all.  Was 
not  the  whole  Norse  Religion,  accordingly,  in  some 
40 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

sense,  what  we  called  ^the  enormous  shadow  of  this 
man’s  likeness?^  Critics  trace  some  affinity  in  some 
Norse  mythuses,  of  the  Creation  and  such  like,  with 
those  of  the  Hindoos.  The  Cow  Adumbla,  ‘ licking 
the  rime  from  the  rocks,’ has  a kind  of  Hindoo  look. 
A Hindoo  Cow,  transported  into  frosty  countries. 
Probably  enough ; indeed  we  may  say  undoubtedly, 
these  things  will  have  a kindred  with  the  remotest 
lands,  with  the  earliest  times.  Thought  does  not  die, 
but  only  is  changed.  The  first  man  that  began  to 
think  in  this  Planet  of  ours,  he  was  the  beginner  of 
all.  And  then  the  second  man,  and  the  third  man ; — 
nay,  every  true  Thinker  to  this  hour  is  a kind  of 
Odin,  teaches  men  his  way  of  thought,  spreads  a 
shadow  of  his  own  likeness  over  sections  of  the 
History  of  the  World. 

Of  the  distinctive  poetic  character  or  merit  of  this 
Norse  Mythology  I have  not  room  to  speak ; nor 
does  it  concern  us  much.  Some  wild  Prophecies  we 
have,  as  the  Voluspa  in  the  Elder  Edda;  of  a rapt, 
earnest,  sibylline  sort.  But  they  were  comparatively 
an  idle  adjunct  of  the  matter,  men  who  as  it  were 
but  toyed  with  the  matter,  these  later  Skalds ; and 
it  is  their  songs  chiefly  that  survive.  In  later  cen- 
turies, I suppose,  they  would  go  on  singing,  poetically 
symbolising,  as  our  modern  Painters  paint,  when  it 
was  no  longer  from  the  innermost  heart,  or  not  from 
the  heart  at  all.  This  is  everywhere  to  be  well  kept 
in  mind. 

Gray’s  fragments  of  Norse  Lore,  at  any  rate,  will 
give  one  no  notion  of  it ; — any  more  than  Pope  will 
of  Homer.  It  is  no  square-built  gloomy  palace  of 
black  ashlar  marble,  shrouded  in  awe  and  horror,  as 
Gray  gives  it  us  ; no  ; rough  as  the  North  rocks,  as 
the  Iceland  deserts,  it  is ; with  a heartiness,  home- 

41 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Hness,  even  a tint  of  goodhumour  and  robust  mirth 
in  the  middle  of  these  fearful  things.  The  strong  old 
Norse  heart  did  not  go  upon  theatrical  sublimities ; 
they  had  not  time  to  tremble.  I like  much  their 
robust  simplicity ; their  veracity,  directness  of  con- 
ception. Thor  ‘ draws- down  his  brows  ’ in  a veritable 
Norse  rage ; ‘grasps  his  hammer  till  the  knuckles  grow 
white.^  Beautiful  traits  of  pity  too,  an  honest  pity. 
Balder  ‘ the  white  God  * dies  ; the  beautiful,  benig- 
nant ; he  is  the  Sungod.  They  try  all  Nature  for  a 
remedy  ; but  he  is  dead.  Frigga,  his  mother,  sends 
Hermoder  to  seek  or  see  him : nine  days  and  nine 
nights  he  rides  through  gloomy  deep  valley  s,  a laby- 
rinth of  gloom  ; arrives  at  the  Bridge  with  its  gold 
roof:  the  Keeper  says,  “ Yes,  Balder  did  pass  here ; 
but  the  Kingdom  of  the  Dead  is  down  yonder,  far 
towards  the  North.”  Hermoder  rides  on ; leaps 
Hell-gate,  Hela’s  gate ; does  see  Balder,  and  speak 
with  him  : Balder  cannot  be  delivered.  Inexorable  ! 
Hela  will  not,  for  Odin'  o«r  any  God,  give  him  up. 
The  beautiful  and  gentle  has  to  remain  there.  His 
Wife  had  volunteered  to  go  with  him,  to  die  with 
him.  They  shall  forever  remain  there.  He  sends 
his  ring  to  Odin ; Nanna  his  wife  sends  her  thimble 
to  Frigga,  as  a remembrance. — Ah  me  ! — 

For  indeed  Valour  is  the  fountain  of  Pity  too ; — 
of  Truth,  and  all  that  is  great  and  good  in  man.  The 
robust  homely  vigour  of  the  Norse  heart  attaches 
one  much,  in  these  delineations.  Is  it  not  a trait  of 
right  honest  strength,  says  Uhland,  who  has  written 
a fine  Essay  on  Thor,  that  the  old  Norse  heart  finds 
its  friend  in  the  Thunder-god  ? That  it  is  not  fright- 
ened away  by  his  thunder ; but  finds  that  Summer- 
heat,  the  beautiful  noble  summer,  must  and  will 
have  thunder  withal ! The  Norse  heart  loves  this 
Thor  and  his  hammer-bolt ; sports  with  him.  Thor 
42 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

Is  Summer-heat ; the  god  of  Peaceable  Industry  as 
well  as  Thunder.  He  is  the  Peasant’s  friend ; his 
true  henchman  and  attendant  is  Thialfi,  Manual 
Labour,  Thor  himself  engages  in  all  manner  of  rough 
manual  work,  scorns  no  business  for  its  plebeianism ; 
is  ever  and  anon  travelling  to  the  country  of  the 
Jotuns,  harrying  those  chaotic  Frost- monsters,  sub- 
duing them,  at  least  straitening  and  damaging  them. 
There  is  a great  broad  humour  in  some  of  these 
things. 

Thor,  as  we  saw  above,  goes  to  Jotun-land,  to  seek 
Hymir’s  Cauldron,  that  the  Gods  may  brew  beer. 
Hymir  the  huge  Giant  enters,  his  gray  beard  all  full 
of  hoar-frost ; splits  pillars  with  the  very  glance  of  his 
eye ; Thor,  after  much  rough  tumult,  snatches  the 
Pot,  claps  it  on  his  head ; the  ‘ handles  of  it  reach 
down  to  his  heels.’  The  Norse  Skald  has  a kind  of 
loving  sport  with  Thor.  This  is  the  Hymir  whose 
cattle,  the  critics  have  discovered,  are  Icebergs. 
Huge  untutored  Brobdignag  genius, — needing  only 
to  be  tamed-down;  into  Shakspeares,  Dantes, 
Goethes  ! It  is  all  gone  now,  that  old  Norse  work, — 
Thor  the  Thundergod  changed  into  Jack  the  Giant- 
killer  : but  the  mind  that  made  it  is  here  yet.  How 
strangely  things  grow,and  die,  anddo  not  die ! There 
are  twigs  of  that  great  world-tree  of  Norse  Belief  still 
curiously  traceable.  This  poor  Jack  of  the  Nursery, 
with  his  miraculous  shoes  of  swiftness,  coat  of  dark- 
ness, sword  of  sharpness,  he  is  one.  Hynde  Etin,  and 
still  more  decisively  Red  Etin  of  Ireland/mthQ  Scottish 
Ballads,  these  are  both  derived  from  Norseland ; Etin 
is  evidently  a J'dtun.  Nay,  Shakspeare’s  Hamlet  is  a 
twig  too  of  this  same  world-tree ; there  seems  no 
doubt  of  that.  Hamlet,  Amleth,  I find,  is  really  a 
mythic  personage ; and  his  Tragedy,  of  the  poisoned 
Father,  poisoned  asleep  by  drops  in  his  ear,  and  the 

43 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

rest,  is  a Norse  mythus ! Old  Saxo,  as  his  wont  was 
made  it  a Danish  history ; Shakspeare,  out  of  Saxo, 
made  it  what  we  see.  That  is  a twig  of  the  world-tree 
that  has  groivn^  I think ; — by  nature  or  accident  that 
one  has  grown ! 

In  fact,  these  old  Norse  songs  have  a truth  in  them, 
an  inward  perennial  truth  and  greatness, — as,  indeed, 
all  must  have  that  can  very  long  preserve  itself  by 
tradition  alone.  It  is  a greatness  not  of  mere  body  and 
gigantic  bulk,  but  a rude  greatness  of  soul.  There  is 
a sublime  uncomplaining  melancholy  traceable  in 
these  old  hearts.  A great  free  glance  into  the  very 
deeps  of  thought.  They  seem  to  have  seen,  these 
brave  old  Northmen,  what  Meditation  has  taught  all 
men  in  all  ages.  That  this  world  is  after  all  but  a 
show, — a phenomenon  or  appearance,  no  real  thing. 
All  deep  souls  see  into  that, — the  Hindoo  Mytholo- 
gist,  the  German  Philosopher, — the  Shakspeare,  the 
earnest  Thinker,  wherever  he  may  be : 

‘ We  are  such  stuff  as  Dreams  are  made  of!  ^ 

One  of  Thor’s  expeditions,  to  Utgard  (the  Outer 
Garden,  central  seat  of  Jotun-land),  is  remarkable  in 
this  respect.  Thialfi  was  with  him,  and  Loke.  After 
various  adventures,  they  entered  upon  Giant-land  ; 
wandered  over  plains,  wild  uncultivated  places, 
among  stones  and  trees.  At  nightfall  they  noticed 
a house  ; and  as  the  door,  which  indeed  formed  one 
whole  side  of  the  house,  was  open,  they  entered.  Itwas 
a simple  habitation;  one  large  hall,  altogether  empty. 
They  stayed  there.  Suddenly  in  the  dead  of  the  night 
loud  noises  alarmed  them.  Thor  grasped  his  ham- 
mer ; stood  in  the  door,  prepared  for  fight.  His  com- 
panions within  ran  hither  and  thither  in  their  terror, 
seeking  some  outlet  in  that  rude  hall ; they  found  a 
little  closet  at  last,  and  took  refuge  there.  Neither 
44 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

had  Thor  any  battle : for,  lo,  in  the  morning  it  turned- 
out  that  the  noise  had  been  only  the  snoring  of  a cer- 
tain enormous  but  peaceable  Giant,  the  Giant  Skry- 
mir,  who  lay  peaceably  sleeping  near  by ; and  this 
that  they  took  for  a house  was  merely  his  Glove, 
thrown  aside  there ; the  door  was  the  Glove- wrist ; 
the  little  closet  they  had  fled  into  was  the  Thumb ! 
Such  a glove I remark  too  that  it  had  not  fin- 
gers as  ours  have,  but  only  a thumb,  and  the  rest 
undivided : a most  ancient,  rustic  glove  ! 

Skrymir  now  carried  their  portmanteau  all  day ; 
Thor,  however,  had  his  own  suspicions,  did  not  like 
the  ways  of  Skrymir ; determined  at  night  to  put  an 
end  to  him  as  he  slept.  Raising  his  hammer,  he  struck 
down  into  the  Giant’s  face  a right  thunderbolt  blow, 
of  force  to  rend  rocks.  The  Giant  merely  awoke  ; 
rubbed  his  cheek,  and  said.  Did  a leaf  fall  ? Again 
Thor  struck,  so  soon  as  Skrymir  again  slept ; a better 
blow  than  before ; but  the  Giant  only  murmured. 
Was  that  a grain  of  sand  ? Thor’s  third  stroke  was 
with  bothhis  hands  (the  ‘knuckles  white’  I suppose), 
and  seemed  to  dint  deep  into  Skrymir’s  visage  ; but 
he  merely  checked  his  snore,  and  remarked.  There 
must  be  sparrows  roosting  in  this  tree,  I think ; what 
is  that  they  have  dropt  ? — At  the  gate  of  Utgard,  a 
place  so  high  that  you  had  to  ‘ strain  your  neck  bend- 
ing back  to  see  the  top  of  it,’  Skrymir  went  his  ways. 
Thor  and  his  companions  were  admitted ; invited  to 
take  share  in  the  games  going  on.  To  Thor,  for  his 
part,  they  handed  a Drinking-horn ; it  was  a com- 
mon feat,  they  told  him,  to  drink  this  dry  at  one 
draught.  Long  and  fiercely,  three  times  over,  Thor 
drank  ; but  made  hardly  any  impression.  He  was 
a weak  child,  they  told  him  : could  he  lift  that  Cat 
he  saw  there?  Small  as  the  feat  seemed,  Thor 
with  his  whole  godlike  strength  could  not;  he 

45 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

bent-up  the  creature’s  back,  could  not  raise  its 
feet  off  the  ground,  could  at  the  utmost  raise  one 
foot.  Why,  you  are  no  man,  said  the  Utgard 
people ; there  is  an  Old  Woman  that  will  wrestle 
you ! Thor,  heartily  ashamed,  seized  this  haggard 
Old  Woman ; but  could  not  throw  her. 

And  nowon  their  quitting  Utgard, the  chief  Jotun, 
escorting  them  politely  a little  way,  said  to  Thor : 
‘‘  Y ou  are  beaten  then : — yet  be  not  so  much  ashamed; 
there  was  deception  of  appearance  in  it.  That  Horn 
you  tried  to  drink  was  the  Sea  ; you  did  make  it  ebb ; 
but  who  could  drink  that,  the  bottomless ! The  Gat 
you  would  have  lifted, — why,  that  is  the  Midgard- 
snake,  the  Great  World-serpent,  which,  tail  in  mouth, 
girds  and  keeps-up  the  whole  created  world ; had 
you  torn  that  up,  the  world  must  have  rushed  to 
ruin.  As  for  the  Old  Woman,  she  was  Time,  Old 
Age,  Duration:  with  her  what  can  wrestle?  No 
man  nor  no  god  with  her ; gods  or  men,  she  pre- 
vails over  all ! And  then  those  three  strokes  you 
struck, — look  at  these  three  valleys;  your  three 
strokes  made  these  ! ” Thor  looked  at  his  attendant 
Jotun : it  was  Skrymir ; — it  was,  say  Norse  critics, 
the  old  chaotic  rocky  Earth  in  person,  and  that 
^OYQ-house  was  some  Earth-cavern  ! But  Skrymir 
had  vanished ; Utgard  with  its  skyhigh  gates,  when 
Thor  grasped  his  hammer  to  smite  them,  had  gone 
to  air  ; only  the  Giant’s  voice  was  heard  mocking : 
“Better  come  no  more  to  Jotunheim  I”--*/ 

This  is  of  the  allegoric  period,  as  we  see,  and  half 
play,  not  of  the  prophetic  and  entirely  devout : but 
as  a my  thus,  is  there  not  real  antique  Norse  gold  in 
it  ? More  true  metal,  rough  from  the  Mimer-stithy, 
than  in  many  a famed  Greek  Mythus  shaped  far  bet- 
ter ! A great  broad  Brobdignag  grin  of  true  humour 
is  in  this  Skrymir ; mirth  resting  on  earnestness  and 
46 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

sadness,  as  the  rainbow  on  black  tempest : only  a 
right  valiant  heart  Is  capable  of  that.  It  Is  the  grim 
humour  of  our  own  Ben  Jonson,  rare  old  Ben; 
runs  In  the  blood  of  us,  I fancy ; for  one  catches 
tones  of  It,  under  a still  other  shape,  out  of  the 
American  Backwoods. 

That  Is  also  a very  striking  conception,  that  of  the 
Ragnarokf  Consummation,  or  Twilight  of  the  Gods. 
It  is  In  the  Voluspa  Song;  seemingly  a very  old, 
prophetic  Idea.  The  Gods  and  Jotuns,  the  divine 
Powers  and  the  chaotic  brute  ones,  after  long  contest 
and  partial  victory  by  the  former,  meet  at  last  in 
universal  world-embracing  wrestle  and  duel;  World- 
serpent  against  Thor,  strength  against  strength; 
mutually  extinctive;  and  ruin,  ‘twilight’  sinking 
Into  darkness,  swallows  the  created  Universe.  The 
old  Universe  with  Its  Gods  is  sunk ; but  It  is  not 
final  death  i there  is  to  be  a new  Heaven  and  a 
new  Earth ; a higher  supreme  God,  and  Justice  to 
reign  among  men.  Curious : this  law  of  mutation, 
which  also  is  a law  written  in  man’s  inmost  thought, 
had  been  deciphered  by  these  old  earnest  Thinkers 
in  their  rude  style ; and  how,  though  all  dies,  and 
even  gods  die,  yet  all  death  is  but  a Phoenix  fire- 
death,  and  new-birth  into  the  Greater  and  the 
Better ! It  is  the  fundamental  Law  of  Being  for 
a creature  made  of  Time,  living  in  this  Place  of 
Hope.  All  earnest  men  have  seen  into  it;  may 
still  see  into  it. 

And  now,  connected  with  this,  let  us  glance  at 
the  last  mythus  of  the  appearance  of  Thor ; and 
end  there.  I fancy  it  to  be  the  latest  in  date  of  all 
these  fables;  a sorrowing  protest  against  the  ad- 
vance of  Christianity, — set  forth  reproachfully  by 
some  Conservative  Pagan.  King  Olaf  has  been 
harshly  blamed  for  his  over-zeal  in  introducing 

47 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Christianity ; surely  I should  have  blamed  him  far 
more  for  an  under-zeal  in  that ! He  paid  dear 
enough  for  it ; he  died  by  the  revolt  of  his  Pagan 
people,  in  battle,  in  the  year  1033,  at  Stickelstad, 
near  that  Dronthelm,  where  the  chief  Cathedral 
of  the  North  has  now  stood  for  many  centuries, 
dedicated  gratefully  to  his  memory  as  Saint  Olaf, 
The  mythus  about  Thor  is  to  this  effect.  King 
Olaf,  the  Christian  Reform  King,  is  sailing  with  fit 
escort  along  the  shore  of  Norway,  from  haven  to 
haven;  dispensing  justice,  or  doing  other  royal 
work : on  leaving  a certain  haven,  it  is  found  that 
a stranger,  of  grave  eyes  and  aspect,  red  beard,  of 
stately  robust  figure,  has  stept  in.  The  courtiers 
address  him ; his  answers  surprise  by  their  perti- 
nency and  depth : at  length  he  is  brought  to  the 
King.  The  stranger’s  conversation  here  is  not  less 
remarkable,  as  they  sail  along  the  beautiful  shore ; 
but  after  some  time,  he  addresses  King  Olaf  thus  : 
‘‘Yes,  King  Olaf,  it  is  all  beautiful,  with  the  sun 
shining  on  it  there;  green,  fruitful,  a right  fair 
home  for  you ; and  many  a sore  day  had  Thor, 
many  a wild  fight  with  the  rock  Jotuns,  before  he 
could  make  it  so.  And  now  you  seem  minded  to 
put  away  Thor.  King  Olaf,  have  a care ! ” said 
the  stranger,  drawing-down  his  brows ; — and  when 
they  looked  again,  he  was  nowhere  to  be  found. — 
This  is  the  last  appearance  of  Thor  on  the  stage  of 
this  world ! 

Do  we  not  see  well  enough  how  the  Fable  might 
arise,  without  unveracity  on  the  part  of  any  one  ? 
It  is  the  way  most  Gods  have  come  to  appear 
among  men:  thus,  if  in  Pindar’s  time  ‘Neptune 
was  seen  once  at  the  Nemean  Games,’  what  was  this 
Neptune  too  but  a ‘stranger  of  noble  grave  as- 
pect,’— fit  to  be  ‘seen  ! ’ There  is  something  pathetic, 
48 


THE  HERO  AS  DIVINITY 

tragic  for  me,  in  this  last  voice  of  Paganism.  Thor 
is  vanished,  the  whole  Norse  world  has  vanished ; 
and  will  not  return  ever  again.  In  like  fashion  to 
that,  pass  away  the  highest  things.  All  things  that 
have  been  in  this  world,  all  things  that  are  or  will 
be  in  it,  have  to  vanish : we  have  our  sad  farewell  i ^ 
to  give  them. 

That  Norse  Religion,  a rude  but  earnest,  sternly 
impressive  Consecration  of  Valour  (so  we  may  define 
it),  sufficed  for  these  old  valiant  Northmen.  Conse- 
cration of  Valour  is  not  a had  thing  ! We  will  take 
it  for  good,  so  far  as  it  goes.  Neither  is  there  no  use 
in  knowing  something  about  this  old  Paganism  of  our 
Fathers.  Unconsciously,  and  combined  with  higher 
things,  it  is  in  us  yet,  that  old  F aith  withal ! To  know 
it  consciously,  brings  us  into  closer  and  clearer  re- 
lation with  the  Past, — with  our  own  possessions  in 
the  Past.  For  the  whole  Past,  as  I keep  repeating, 
is  the  possession  of  the  Present ; the  Past  had  always 
something  true,  and  is  a precious  possession.  In  a 
different  time,  in  a different  place,  it  is  always  some 
other  side  of  our  common  Human  Nature  that  has 
been  developing  itself.  The  actual  True  is  the  sum 
of  all  these ; not  any  one  of  them  by  itself  consti- 
tutes what  of  Human  Nature  is  hitherto  developed. 
Better  to  know  them  all  than  misknow  them.  “ To 
which  of  these  Three  Religions  do  you  specially 
adhere?’’  inquires  Meister  of  his  Teacher.  ‘‘To 
all  the  Three ! ” answers  the  other : “ To  all  the 
Three ; for  they  by  their  union  first  constitute  the 
True  Religion.” 


d 


49 


I 


LECTURE  TWO 

THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET. 
MAHOMET:  ISLAM 

Friday,  8th  May,  1840 


■ 


/ 


j 


LECTURE  II.  THE  HERO 
AS  PROPHET 

From  the  first  rude  times  of  Paganism  among 
the  Scandinavians  in  the  North,  we  advance 
to  a very  different  epoch  of  religion,  among 
a very  different  people:  Mahometanism 
among  the  Arabs.  A great  change ; what  a change 
and  progress  is  indicated  here,  in  the  universal  con- 
dition and  thoughts  of  men  ! 

The  Hero  is  not  now  regarded  as  a God  among 
his  fellow-men  j but  as  one  God-inspired,  as  a Pro- 
phet. It  is  the  second  phasis  of  Hero-worship : the 
first  or  oldest,  we  may  say,  has  passed  away  with- 
out return  ; in  the  history  of  the  world  there  will  / j 
not  again  be  any  man,  never  so  great,  whom  his  1 1 
fellow-men  will  take  for  a god.  Nay  we  might  ra- 
tionally ask.  Did  any  set  of  human  beings  ever 
really  think  the  man  they  saw  there  standing  be- 
side them  a god,  the  maker  of  this  world?  Per- 
haps not:  it  was  usually  some  man  they  remem- 
bered, or  had  seen.  But  neither  can  this,  any  more, 
be.  The  Great  Man  is  not  recognised  henceforth  as 
a god  any  more,  tf 

It  was  a rude  gross  error,  that  of  counting  the 
Great  Man  a god.  Yet  let  us  say  that  it  is  at  all 
times  difficult  to  know  what  he  is,  or  how  to  account 
of  him  and  receive  him  ! The  most  significant  fea- 
ture in  the  history  of  an  epoch  is  the  manner  it  has 
of  welcoming  a Great  Man.  Ever,  to  the  true  in- 
stincts of  men,  there  is  something  godlike  in  him. 
Whether  they  shall  take  him  to  be  a god,  to  be  a 
prophet,  or  what  they  shall  take  him  to  be  ? that  is 
ever  a grand  question ; by  their  way  of  answering 
that,  we  shall  see,  as  through  a little  window,  into 
the  very  heart  of  these  men’s  spiritual  condition. 
For  at  bottom  the  Great  Man,  as  he  comes  from  the 

53 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

hand  of  Nature,  is  ever  the  same  kind  of  thing: 
Odin,  Luther,  Johnson,  Burns;  I hope  to  make  it 
appear  that  these  are  all  originally  of  one  stuff ; that 
only  by  the  world’s  reception  of  them,  and  the 
shapes  they  assume,  are  they  so  immeasurably  di- 
verse. The  worship  of  Odin  astonishes  us, — to  fall 
prostrate  before  the  Great  Man,  into  deliquium  of 
love  and  wonder  over  him,  and  feel  in  their  hearts 
that  he  was  a denizen  of  the  skies,  a god  ! This  was 
imperfect  enough  : but  to  welcome,  for  example,  a 
Burns  as  we  did,  was  that  what  we  can  call  perfect  ? 
The  most  precious  gift  that  Heaven  can  give  to  the 
Earth ; a man  of  ‘ genius  ’ as  we  call  it ; the  Soul  of 
a Man  actually  sent  down  from  the  skies  with  a 
God’s-message  to  us, — this  we  waste  away  as  an 
idle  artificial  firework,  sent  to  amuse  us  a little,  and 
sink  it  into  ashes,  wreck  and  ineffectuality : such 
reception  of  a Great  Man  I do  not  call  very  perfect 
either  ! Looking  into  the  heart  of  the  thing,  one  may 
perhaps  call  that  of  Burns  a still  uglier  phenomenon, 
betokening  still  sadder  imperfections  in  mankind’s 
ways,  than  the  Scandinavian  method  itself ! To  fall 
into  mere  unreasoning  deliquium  of  love  and  admira- 
tion, was  not  good  ; but  such  unreasoning,  nay  irra- 
tional, supercilious  no-love  at  all  is  perhaps  still 
worse  ! — It  is  a thing  forever  changing,  this  of 
Hero-worship : different  in  each  age,  difficult  to  do 
well  in  any  age.  Indeed  the  heart  of  the  whole 
business  of  the  age,  one  may  say,  is  to  do  it  well. 

We  have  chosen  Mahomet  not  as  the  most  emi- 
nent Prophet ; but  as  the  one  we  are  freest  to  speak 
of.  He  is  by  no  means  the  truest  of  Prophets  ; but 
I do  esteem  him  a true  one.  Farther,  as  there  is 
no  danger  of  our  becoming,  any  of  us,  Mahometans, 
I mean  to  say  all  the  good  of  him  I justly  can.  It  is 
54 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

the  way  to  get  at  his  secret : let  us  try  to  understand 
what  he  meant  with  the  world ; what  the  world 
meant  and  means  with  him,  will  then  be  a more 
answerable  question/^  Our  current  hypothesis  about 
Mahomet,  that  he  was  a scheming  Impostor,  a False- . 
hood  incarnate,  that  his  religion  is  a mere  mass  of/ 
quackery  and  fatuity,  begins  really  to  be  now  un-  > 
tenable  to  any  one.  The  lies,  which  well-meaning/ 
zeal  has  heaped  round  this  man,  are  disgraceful  to ' 
ourselves  only.  When  Pococke  inquired  of  Grotius, 
Where  the  proof  was  of  that  story  of  the  pigeon, 
trained  to  pick  peas  from  Mahomet’s  ear,  and  pass 
for  an  angel  dictating  to  him  ? Grotius  answered 
that  there  was  no  proof ! It  is  really  time  to  dismiss 
all  that.  The  word  this  man  spoke  has  been  the  life- 
guidance  now  of  one-hundred-and-eighty-millionsof 
men  these  twelve-hundred  years.  These  hundred- 
and-eighty-millions  were  made  by  God  as  well  as 
we.  A greater  number  of  God’s  creatures  believe 
in  Mahomet’s  word,  at  this  hour,  than  in  any  other 
word  whatever.  Are  we  to  suppose  that  it  was  a 
miserable  piece  of  spiritual  legerdemain,  this  which 
so  many  creatures  of  the  Almighty  have  lived  by 
and  died  by  ? I,  for  my  part,  cannot  form  any  such  ^ 
supposition.  I will  believe  most  things  sooner  than  / 
that.  One  would  be  entirely  at  a loss  what  to  think  j 
of  this  world  at  all,  if  quackery  so  grew  and  were  ^ 
sanctioned  here./^ 

Alas,  such  theories  are  very  lamentable.  If  we 
would  attain  to  knowledge  of  anything  in  God’s  true 
Creation,  let  us  disbelieve  them  wholly  ! They  are 
the  product  of  an  Age  of  Scepticism ; they  indicate 
the  saddest  spiritual  paralysis,  and  mere  death-life 
of  the  souls  of  men  : more  godless  theory,  I think, 
was  never  promulgated  in  this  Earth.  A false  man 
found  a religion  ? Why,  a false  man  cannot  build 

55 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

a brick  house  ! If  he  do  not  know  and  follow  truly 
the  properties  of  mortar,  burnt  clay  and  what  else 
he  works  in,  it  is  no  house  that  he  makes,  but  a 
rubbish-heap.  It  will  not  stand  for  twelve  centuries, 
to  lodge  a hundred-and-eighty-millions  ; it  will  fall 
straightway.  A man  must  conform  himself  to 
Nature’s  laws,  he  verily  in  communion  with  Nature 
and  the  truth  of  things,  or  Nature  will  answer  him. 
No,  not  at  all ! Speciosities  are  specious — ah  me ! — 
a Cagliostro,  many  Gagliostros,  prominent  world- 
leaders,  do  prosper  by  their  quackery,  for  a day. 
It  is  like  a forged  bank-note  ; they  get  it  passed  out 
of  their  worthless  hands : others,  not  they,  have  to 
smart  for  it.  Nature  bursts-up  in  fire-flames,  F rench 
Revolutions  and  such  like,  proclaiming  with  terrible 
veracity  that  forged  notes  are  forged. 

But  of  a Great  Man  especially,  of  him  I will 
venture  to  assert  that  it  is  incredible  he  should  have 
been  other  than  true.  It  seems  to  me  the  primary 
foundation  of  him,  and  of  all  that  can  lie  in  him,  this. 
No  Mirabeau,  Napoleon,  Burns,  Cromwell,  no  man 
adequate  to  do  anything,  but  is  first  of  all  in  right 
earnest  about  it ; what  I call  a sincere  man.  I should 
say  sincerity,  a deep,  great,  genuine  sincerity,  is  the 
first  characteristic  of  all  men  in  any  way  heroic. 
Not  the  sincerity  that  calls  itself  sincere;  ah  no, 
that  is  a very  poor  matter  indeed; — a shallow 
braggart  conscious  sincerity;  oftenest  self-conceit 
mainly.  The  Great  Man’s  sincerity  is  of  the  kind 
he  cannot  speak  of,  is  not  conscious  of:  nay,  I 
suppose,  he  is  conscious  rather  of  insincerity ; for 
what  man  can  walk  accurately  by  the  law  of  truth 
for  one  day  ? No,  the  Great  Man  does  not  boast 
himself  sincere,  far  from  that ; perhaps  does  not  ask 
himself  if  he  is  so  : I would  say  rather,  his  sincerity 
does  not  depend  on  himself ; he  cannot  help  being 
56 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

sincere!  The  great  Fact  of  Existence  Is  great  to 
him.  Fly  as  he  will,  he  cannot  get  out  of  the  awful 
presence  of  this  Reality.  His  mind  Is  so  made ; he 
is  great  by  that,  first  of  all.  Fearful  and  wonderful, 
real  as  Life,  real  as  Death,  Is  this  Universe  to  him. 
Though  all  men  should  forget  its  truth,  and  walk  in 
a vain  show,  he  cannot.  At  all  moments  the  Flame- 
image  glares-ln  upon  him  ; undeniable,  there,  there  ! 
— I wish  you  to  take  this  as  my  primary  definition 
of  a Great  Man.  A little  man  may  have  this,  it  is  I 
competent  to  all  men  that  God  has  made:  but  a I 
Great  Man  cannot  be  without  it. 

Such  a man  is  what  we  call  an  original  man ; he 
comes  to  us  at  first-hand.  A messenger  he,  sent 
from  the  Infinite  Unknown  with  tidings  to  us.  We 
may  call  him  Poet,  Prophet,  God ; — in  one  way 
or  other,  we  all  feel  that  the  words  he  utters  are  as 
no  other  man’s  words.  Direct  from  the  Inner  Fact 
of  things ; — he  lives,  and  has  to  live,  in  daily  com- 
munion with  that.  Hearsays  cannot  hide  it  from 
him;  he  is  blind,  homeless,  miserable,  following 
hearsays ; it  glares-ln  upon  him.  Really  his  utter- 
ances, are  they  not  a kind  of  ‘ revelation ; ’ — what 
we  must  call  such  for  want  of  some  other  name  ? It 
is  from  the  heart  of  the  world  that  he  comes ; he  is 
portion  of  the  primal  reality  of  things.  God  has 
made  many  revelations:  but  this  man  too,  has 
not  God  made  him,  the  latest  and  newest  of  all? 
The  ‘ inspiration  of  the  Almighty  giveth  him  under- 
standing : ’ we  must  listen  before  all  to  him. 

This  Mahomet,  then,  we  will  in  no  wise  consider 
as  an  Inanity  and  Theatricality,  a poor  conscious 
ambitious  schemer;  we  cannot  conceive  him  so. 
The  rude  message  he  delivered  was  a real  one 
withal ; an  earnest  confused  voice  from  the  unknown 

57 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Deep.  The  man’s  words  were  not  false,  nor  his 
workings  here  below;  no  Inanity  and  Simula- 
crum ; a fiery  mass  of  Life  cast-up  from  the  great 
bosom  of  Nature  herself.  To  kindle  the  world ; the 
world’s  Maker  had  ordered  it  so.  Neither  can  the 
faults,  Imperfections,  Insincerities  even,  of  Mahomet, 
if  such  were  never  so  well  proved  against  him,  shake 
this  primary  fact  about  him. 

On  the  whole,  we  make  too  much  of  faults ; the 
details  of  the  business  hide  the  real  centre  of  it. 
Faults?  The  greatest  of  faults,  I should  say,  is  to 
be  conscious  of  none.  Readers  of  the  Bible  above 
all,  one  would  think,  might  know  better.  Who  is 
called  there  ‘the  man  according  to  God’s  own 
heart  ? ’ David,  the  Hebrew  King,  had  fallen  Into 
sins  enough ; blackest  crimes ; there  was  no  want 
of  sins.  And  thereupon  the  unbelievers  sneer  and 
ask.  Is  this  your  man  according  to  God’s  heart  ? The 
sneer,  I must  say,  seems  to  me  but  a shallow  one. 
What  are  faults,  what  are  the  outward  details  of  a 
life ; if  the  inner  secret  of  It,  the  remorse,  tempta- 
tions, true,  often-bafiled,  never-ended  struggle  of 
it,  be  forgotten?  ‘It  is  not  In  man  that  walketh  to 
direct  his  steps.’  Of  all  acts,  is  not,  for  a man,  repent- 
ance the  most  divine  ? The  deadliest  sin,  I say,  were 
that  same  supercilious  consciousness  of  no  sin ; — that 
is  death ; the  heart  so  conscious  is  divorced  from 
sincerity,  humility  and  fact ; is  dead  : It  is  ‘ pure  ’ 
as  dead  dry  sand  is  pure.  David’s  life  and  history, 
as  written  for  us  In  those  Psalms  of  his,  I consider 
to  be  the  truest  emblem  ever  given  of  a man’s  moral 
progress  and  warfare  here  below.  All  earnest  souls 
will  ever  discern  in  it  the  faithful  struggle  of  an 
earnest  human  soul  towards  what  is  good  and  best. 
Struggle  often  baffled,  sore  baffled,  down  as  into 
entire  wreck ; yet  a struggle  never  ended ; ever,  with 
58 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

tears,  repentance,  true  unconquerable  purpose, 
begun  anew.  Poor  human  nature  ! Is  not  a man’s 
walkingj^tti  truth,  always  that:  ‘a  succession  of 
falls  ? ’ Man  can  do  no  other.  In  this  wild  element 
of  a Life,  he  has  to  struggle  onwards ; now  fallen, 
deep-abased ; and  ever,  with  tears,  repentance,  with 
bleeding  heart,  he  has  to  rise  again,  struggle  again 
still  onwards.  That  his  struggle  be  a faithful  un- 
conquerable one : that  is  the  question  of  questions. 
We  will  put-up  with  many  sad  details,  if  the  soul  of 
it  were  true.  Details  by  themselves  will  never  teach 
us  what  it  is.  I believe  we  misestimate  Mahomet’s 
faults  even  as  faults : but  the  secret  of  him  will  never 
be  got  by  dwelling  there.  We  will  leave  all  this  be- 
hind us ; and  assuring  ourselves  that  he  did  mean 
some  true  thing,  ask  candidly  what  it  was  or  might  be. 

These  Arabs  Mahomet  was  born  among  are  cer- 
tainly a notable  people.  Their  country  itself  is 
notable ; the  fit  habitation  for  such  a race.  Savage  in- 
accessible rock-mountains,  great  grim  deserts,  alter- 
nating with  beautiful  strips  of  verdure : wherever 
water  is,  there  is  greenness,  beauty;  odoriferousbalm- 
shrubs,  date-trees,  frankincense-trees.  Consider  that 
wide  waste  horizon  of  sand,  empty,  silent,  like  a sand- 
sea,  dividing  habitable  place  from  habitable.  Y ou  are 
all  alone  there,  left  alone  with  the  Universe  ; by  day 
a fierce  sun  blazing  down  on  it  with  intolerable  radi- 
ance ; by  night  the  great  deep  Heaven  with  its  stars. 
Such  a country  is  fit  for  a swift-handed,  deep-hearted 
race  of  men.  There  is  something  most  agile,  active, 
and  yet  most  meditative,  enthusiastic  in  the  Arab 
character.  The  Persians  are  called  the  French  of 
the  East ; we  will  call  the  Arabs  Oriental  Italians.  A 
gifted,  noble  people  ; a people  of  wild  strong  feelings, 
and  of  iron  restraint  over  these  : the  characteristic 

59 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

of  noblemindedness,  of  genius.  The  wild  Bedouin 
welcomes  the  stranger  to  his  tent,  as  one  having 
right  to  all  that  Is  there ; were  It  his  worst  enemy,  he 
will  slay  his  foal  to  treat  him,  will  serve  him  with 

I sacred  hospitality  for  three  days,  will  set  him  fairly 
on  his  way; — and  then,  by  another  law  as  sacred, 
kill  him  If  he  can.  In  words  too,  as  In  action.  They 
are  not  a loquacious  people,  taciturn  rather;  but 
eloquent,  gifted  when  they  do  speak.  An  earnest, 
truthful  kind  of  men.  They  are,  as  we  know,  of 
Jewish  kindred:  but  with  that  deadly  terrible 
earnestness  of  the  Jews  they  seem  to  combine  some- 
thing graceful,  brilliant,  which  Is  not  Jewish.  They 
had  " Poetic  contests  ’ among  them  before  the  time 
of  Mahomet.  Sale  says,  at  Ocadh,  in  the  South  of 
Arabia,  there  were  yearly  fairs,  and  there,  when  the 
merchandising  was  done.  Poets  sang  for  prizes : — 
the  wild  people  gathered  to  hear  that. 

One  Jewish  quality  these  Arabs  manifest ; the 
outcome  of  many  or  of  all  high  qualities : what  we 
may  call  religiosity.  From  of  old  they  had  been 
zealous  worshippers,  according  to  their  light.  They 
worshiped  the  stars,  as  Sabeans;  worshiped  many 
natural  objects, — recognised  them  as  symbols,  im- 
mediate manifestations,  of  the  Maker  of  Nature.  It 
was  wrong  ; and  yet  not  wholly  wrong.  All  God’s 
works  are  still  in  a sense  symbols  of  God.  Do  we 
not,  as  I urged,  still  account  it  a merit  to  recognise 
a certain  inexhaustible  significance,  ‘ poetic  beauty  ’ 
as  we  name  It,  in  all  natural  objects  whatsoever? 
A man  is  a poet,  and  honoured,  for  doing  that,  and 
speaking  or  singing  it, — a kind  of  diluted  worship. 
They  had  many  Prophets  these  Arabs ; Teachers 
each  to  his  tribe,  each  according  to  the  light  he 
had.  But  Indeed,  have  we  not  from  of  old  the 
noblest  of  proofs,  still  palpable  to  every  one  of  us, 
60 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

of  what  devoutness  and  noblemindedness  had  dwelt 
in  these  rustic  thoughtful  peoples  ? Biblical  critics 
seem  agreed  that  our  own  Book  of  Job  was  written  ^ . | 
in  that  region  of  the  world.  I call  that,  apart  from  / i i 
all  theories  about  it,  one  of  the  grandest  things  ever 
written  with  pen.  One  feels,  indeed,  as  if  it  were 
not  Hebrew ; such  a noble  universality,  different 
from  noble  patriotism  or  sectarianism,  reigns  in  it. 

A noble  Book ; all  men’s  Book  ! It  is  our  first,  oldest 
statement  of  the  never-ending  Problem, — man’s  des-  / 
tiny  and  God’s  ways  with  him  here  in  this  earth. 

And  all  in  such  free  flowing  outlines ; grand  in  its 
sincerity,  in  its  simplicity ; in  its  epic  melody,  and 
repose  of  reconcilement.  There  is  the  seeing  eye, 
the  mildly  understanding  heart.  So  true  everyway ; 
true  eyesight  and  vision  for  all  things;  material 
things  no  less  than  spiritual:  the  Horse, — ‘hast 
thou  clothed  his  neck  with  thunder?^ — he  ^laughs 
at  the  shaking  of  the  spear  ! ’ Such  livingFilikenesses 
were  never  since  drawn.  Sublime  sorrow,  sublime  ' * 
reconciliation  ; oldest  choral  melody  as  of  the  heart 
of  mankind ; — so  soft,  and  great ; as  the  summer 
midnight,  as  the  world  with  its  seas  and  stars ! 
There  is  nothing  written,  I think,  in  the  Bible  or 
out  of  it,  of  equal  literary  merit. — 

To  the  idolatrous  Arabs  one  of  the  most  ancient 
universal  objects  of  worship  was  that  Black  Stone, 
still  kept  in  the  building  called  Caabah,  at  Mecca. 
Diodorus  Siculus  mentions  this  Caabah  in  a way 
not  to  be  mistaken,  as  the  oldest,  most  honoured 
temple  in  his  time ; that  is,  some  half-century  before 
our  Era.  Silvestre  de  Sacy  says  there  is  some  like- 
lihood that  the  Black  Stone  is  an  aerolite.  In  that 
case,  some  man  might  see  it  fall  out  of  Heaven  ! It 
stands  now  beside  the  Well  Zemzem ; the  Caabah 
is  built  over  both.  A Well  is  in  all  places  a beautiful 

61 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

affecting  object,  gushing-out  like  life  from  the  hard 
earth; — still  more  so  in  those  hot  dry  countries, 
where  it  is  the  first  condition  of  being.  The  Well 
Zemzem  has  its  name  from  the  bubbling  sound  of 
the  waters,  zm-zm  ; they  think  it  is  the  Well  which 
Hagar  found  with  her  little  Ishmael  in  the  wilder- 
ness : the  aerolite  and  it  have  been  sacred  now,  and 
had  a Caabah  over  them,  for  thousands  of  years, 
A curious  object  that  Caabah  ! There  it  stands  at 
this  hour,  in  the  black  cloth-covering  the  Sultan 
sends  it  yearly  ; ‘twenty-seven  cubits  high  with 
circuit,  with  double  circuit  of  pillars,  with  festoon- 
rows  of  lamps  and  quaint  ornaments : the  lamps  will 
be  lighted  again  this  night, — to  glitter  again  under 
the  stars.  An  authentic  fragment  of  the  oldest  Past. 
It  is  the  Keblah  of  all  Moslem : from  Delhi  all  on- 
wards to  Morocco,  the  eyes  of  innumerable  pray- 
ing men  are  turned  towards  it,  five  times,  this  day 
and  all  days : one  of  the  notablest  centres  in  the 
Habitation  of  Men. 

It  had  been  from  the  sacredness  attached  to  this 
Caabah  Stone  and  Hagar’s  Well,  from  the  pilgrim- 
ings  of  all  tribes  of  Arabs  thither,  that  Mecca  took 
its  rise  as  a Town.  A great  town  once,  though  much 
decayed  now.  It  has  no  natural  advantage  for  a 
town ; stands  in  a sandy  hollow  amid  bare  barren 
hills,  at  a distance  from  the  sea ; its  provisions,  its 
very  bread,  have  to  be  imported.  But  so  many 
pilgrims  needed  lodgings;  and  then  all  places  of 
pilgrimage  do,  from  the  first,  become  places  of 
trade.  The  first  day  pilgrims  meet,  merchants  have 
also  met : where  men  see  themselves  assembled  for 
one  object,  they  find  that  they  can  accomplish  other 
objects  which  depend  on  meeting  together.  Mecca 
became  the  F air  of  all  Arabia.  And  thereby  indeed 
the  chief  staple  and  warehouse  of  whatever  Conj- 
62 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

merce  there  was  between  the  Indian  and  the 
Western  countries,  Syria,  Egypt,  even  Italy.  It 
had  at  one  time  a population  of  100,000 ; buyers, 
forwarders  of  those  Eastern  and  Western  products ; 
importers  for  their  own  behoof  of  provisions  and 
corn.  The  government  was  a kind  of  irregular 
aristocratic  republic,  not  without  a touch  of  theo- 
cracy. Ten  Men  of  a chief  tribe,  chosen  in  some 
rough  way,  were  Governors  of  Mecca,  and  Keepers 
of  the  Caabah.  The  Koreish  were  the  chief  tribe  in 
Mahomet’s  time ; his  own  family  was  of  that  tribe. 

The  rest  of  the  Nation,  fractioned  and  cut-asunder 
by  deserts,  lived  under  similar  rude  patriarchal 
governments  by  one  or  several : herdsmen,  carriers, 
traders,  generally  robbers  too  ; being  oftenest  at 
war,  one  with  another,  or  with  all : held  together 
by  no  open  bond,  if  it  were  not  this  meeting  at  the 
Caabah,  where  all  forms  of  Arab  Idolatry  assembled!  \ 
in  common  adoration  ; — held  mainly  by  the  inward 
indissoluble  bond  of  a common  blood  and  language. 

In  this  way  had  the  Arabs  lived  for  long  ages,  un- 
noticed by  the  world  ; a people  of  great  qualities, 
unconsciously  waiting  for  the  day  when  they  should 
become  notable  to  all  the  world.  Their  Idolatries 
appear  to  have  been  in  a tottering  state ; much  was 
getting  into  confusion  and  fermentation  among  them. 
Obscure  tidings  of  the  most  important  Event  ever 
transacted  in  this  world,  the  Life  and  Death  of  the 
Divine  Man  in  Judea,  at  once  the  symptom  and 
cause  of  immeasurable  change  to  all  people  in 
the  world,  had  in  the  course  of  centuries  reached 
into  Arabia  too ; and  could  not  but,  of  itself,  have 
produced  fermentation  there. 

It  was  among  this  Arab  people,  so  circumstanced, 
in  the  year  570  of  our  Era,  that  the  man  Mahomet 

63 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

was  born.  He  was  of  the  family  of  Hashem,  of  the 
Koreish  tribe  as  we  said ; though  poor,  connected 
with  the  chief  persons  of  his  country.  Almost  at  his 
birth  he  lost  his  Father ; at  the  age  of  six  years  his 
Mother  too,  a woman  noted  for  her  beauty,  her 
worth  and  sense : he  fell  to  the  charge  of  his  Grand- 
father, an  old  man,  a hundred  years  old.  A good 
old  man:  Mahomet’s  Father,  Abdallah,  had  been 
his  youngest  favourite  son.  He  saw  in  Mahomet, 
with  his  old  life-worn  eyes,  a century  old,  the  lost 
Abdallah  come  back  again,  all  that  was  left  of 
Abdallah.  He  loved  the  little  orphan  Boy  greatly ; 
used  to  say,  They  must  take  care  of  that  beautiful 
little  Boy,  nothing  in  their  kindred  was  more  pre- 
cious than  he.  At  his  death,  while  the  boy  was  still 
but  two  years  old,  he  left  him  in  charge  to  Abu 
Thaleb  the  eldest  of  the  Uncles,  as  to  him  that  now 
was  head  of  the  house.  By  this  Uncle,  a just  and 
rational  man  as  everything  betokens,  Mahomet  was 
brought-up  in  the  best  Arab  way. 

Mahomet,  as  he  grew  up,  accompanied  his  Uncle 
on  trading  journeys  and  such  like;  in  his  eighteenth 
year  one  finds  him  a fighter  following  his  Uncle  in 
war.  But  perhaps  the  most  significant  of  all  his 
journeys  is  one  we  find  noted  as  of  some  years’ 
earlier  date : a journey  to  the  Fairs  of  Syria.  The 
young  man  here  first  came  in  contact  with  a quite 
' foreign  world, — with  one  foreign  element  of  endless 
moment  to  him : the  Christian  Religion.  I know 
not  what  to  make  of  that  ‘ Sergius,  the  Nestorian 
Monk,’  whom  Abu  Thaleb  and  he  are  said  to  have 
lodged  with;  or  how  much  any  monk  could  have 
taught  one  still  so  young.  Probably  enough  it  is 
greatly  exaggerated,  this  of  the  Nestorian  Monk, 
Mahomet  was  only  fourteen ; had  no  language  but 
his  own : much  in  Syria  must  have  been  a strange 
64 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

unintelligible  whirlpool  to  him.  But  the  eyes  of 
the  lad  were  open  ; glimpses  of  many  things  would 
doubtless  be  taken-in,  and  lie  very  enigmatic  as  yet, 
which  were  to  ripen  in  a strange  way  into  views, 
into  beliefs  and  insights  one  day.  These  journeys 
to  Syria  were  probably  the  beginning  of  much  to 
Mahomet. 

One  other  circumstance  we  must  not  forget : that 
he  had  no  school-learning  ; of  the  thing  we  call 
school-learning  none  at  all.  The  art  of  writing  was 
but  just  introduced  into  Arabia ; it  seems  to  be  the  j 
true  opinion  that  Mahomet  never  could  write  ! Life 
in  the  Desert,  with  its  experiences,  was  all  his  edu- 
cation. What  of  this  infinite  Universe  he,  from  his 
dim  place,  with  his  own  eyes  and  thoughts,  could 
take-in,  so  much  and  no  more  of  it  was  he  to  know. 
Curious,  if  we  will  reflect  on  it,  this  of  having  no 
books.  Except  by  what  he  could  see  for  himself, 
or  hear  of  by  uncertain  rumour  of  speech  in  the 
obscure  Arabian  Desert,  he  could  know  nothing. 
The  wisdom  that  had  been  before  him  or  at  a dis- 
tance from  him  in  the  world,  was  in  a manner  as 
good  as  not  there  for  him.  Of  the  great  brother 
souls,  flame-beacons  through  so  many  lands  and 
times,  no  one  directly  communicates  with  this  great  \ 
soul.  He  is  alone  there,  deep  down  in  the  bosom  of  \ \ 
the  Wilderness ; has  to  grow  up  so, — alone  with  f ’ 
Nature  and  his  own  Thoughts. 

But,  from  an  early  age,  he  had  been  remarked  as 
a thoughtful  man.  His  companions  named  him  ^Al 
Amin,  The  Faithful.’  A man  of  truth  and  fidelity; 
true  in  what  he  did,  in  what  he  spake  and  thought. 
They  noted  that  he  always  meant  something.  A man 
rather  taciturn  in  speech ; silent  when  there  was 
nothing  to  be  said;  but  pertinent,  wise,  sincere, 
when  he  did  speak ; always  throwing  light  on  the  * 
e 65 


Mli 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

matter.  This  is  the  only  sort  of  speech  worth 
speaking  ! Through  life  we  find  him  to  have  been 
regarded  as  an  altogether  solid,  brotherly,  genuine 
man.  A serious,  sincere  character ; yet  amiable, 
cordial,  companionable,  jocose  even ; — a good  laugh 
in  him  withal:  there  are  men  whose  laugh  is  as 
untrue  as  anything  about  them;  who  cannot  laugh. 
One  hears  of  Mahomet’s  beauty : his  fine  sagacious 
j j honest  face,  brown  florid  complexion,  beaming  black 
n eyes ; — I somehow  Rke  too  that  vein  on  the  brow, 
which  swelled-up  black  when  he  was  in  anger  : like 
the  ‘ horse-shoe  vein  ’ in  Scott’s  Redgauntlet  It  was  a 
kind  of  feature  in  the  Hashem  family,  this  black 
swelling  vein  in  the  brow ; Mahomet  had  it  promi- 
nent, as  would  appear.  A spontaneous,  passionate, 

^ yet  just,  true-meaning  man ! Full  of  wild  faculty, 

, ^ \ fire  and  light ; of  wild  worth,  all  uncultured ; work- 
4ng-out  his  life-task  in  the  depth  of  the  Desert  there. 

How  he  was  placed  with  Kadijah,  a rich  Widow, 
as  her  Steward,  and  travelled  in  her  business,  again 
to  the  Fairs  of  Syria ; how  he  managed  all,  as  one 
can  well  understand,  with  fidelity,  adroitness ; how 
her  gratitude,  her  regard  for  him  grew : the  story  of 
their  marriage  is  altogether  a graceful  intelligible  one, 
as  told  us  by  the  Arab  authors.  He  was  twenty-five ; 
she  forty,  though  still  beautiful.  He  seems  to  have 
lived  in  a most  affectionate,  peaceable,  wholesome 
way  with  this  wedded  benefactress;  loving  her  truly, 
and  her  alone.  It  goes  greatly  against  the  impostor 
theory,  the  fact  that  he  lived  in  this  entirely  unex- 
ceptionable, entirely  quiet  and  commonplace  way, 
till  the  heat  of  his  years  was  done.  He  was  forty 
before  he  talked  of  any  mission  from  Heaven.  All 
j his  irregularities,  real  and  supposed,  date  from  after 
j his  fiftieth  year,  when  the  good  Kadijah  died.  All 
‘ his  ‘ ambition,’  seemingly,  had  been,  hitherto,  to  live 
66 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

an  honest  life  ; his  ‘fame/  the  mere  good-opinion  of 
neighbours  that  knew  him,  had  been  sufficient  hither- 
to. Not  till  he  was  already  getting  old,  the  prurient 
heat  of  his  life  all  burnt-out,  and  peace  growing  to 
be  the  chief  thing  this  world  could  give  him,  did 
he  start  on  the  ‘ career  of  ambition ; ’ and,  belying 
all  his  past  character  and  existence,  set-up  as  a 
wretched  empty  charlatan  to  acquire  what  he  could 
now  no  longer  enjoy  ! F or  my  share,  I have  no  faith 
whatever  in  that. 

Ah  no : this  deep-hearted  Son  of  the  Wilderness, 
with  his  beaming  black  eyes,  and  open  social  deep 
soul,  had  other  thoughts  in  him  than  ambition.  A 
silent  great  soul ; he  was  one  of  those  who  can- 
not but  be  in  earnest ; whom  Nature  herself  has 
appointed  to  be  sincere.  While  others  walk  in 
formulas  and  hearsays,  contented  enough  to  dwell 
there,  this  man  could  not  screen  himself  in  formulas; 
he  was  alone  with  his  own  soul  and  the  reality  of 
things.  The  great  Mystery  of  Existence,  as  I said, 
glared-in  upon  him  ; with  its  terrors,  with  its  splen- 
dours; no  hearsays  could  hide  that  unspeakable  fact, 
“ Here  am  I ! ” Such  sincerity,  as  we  named  it,  has 
in  very  truth  something  of  divine.  The  word  of  such 
a man  is  a Voice  direct  from  Nature^’s  own  Heart. 
Men  do  and  must  listen  to  that  as  to  nothing  else ; — 
all  else  is  wind  in  comparison.  From  of  old,  a 
thousand  thoughts,  in  his  pilgrimings  and  wander- 
ings, had  been  in  this  man  : What  am  I ? What  is 
this  unfathomable  Thing  I live  in,  which  men  name 
Universe  ? What  is  Life  ; what  is  Death  ? What 
am  I to  believe  ? What  am  I to  do  ? The  grim  rocks 
of  Mount  Hara,  of  Mount  Sinai,  the  stern  sandy 
solitudes  answered  not.  The  great  Heaven  rolling 
silent  overhead,withitsblue-glancingstars,  answered 
not.  There  was  no  answer.  The  man’s  own  soul, 

67 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

and  what  of  God’s  inspiration  dwelt  there,  had  to 
answer ! 

It  is  the  thing  which  all  men  have  to  ask  them- 
selves ; which  we  too  have  to  ask,  and  answer. 
This  wild  man  felt  it  to  be  of  infinite  moment ; all 
other  things  of  no  moment  whatever  in  comparison. 
The  jargon  of  argumentative  Greek  Sects,  vague 
traditions  of  Jews,  the  stupid  routine  of  Arab  Idol- 
atry : there  was  no  answer  in  these.  A Hero,  as  I 
repeat,  has  this  first  distinction,  which  indeed  we 
may  call  first  and  last,  the  Alpha  and  Omega  of  his 
I whole  Heroism,  That  he  looks  through  the  shows 
I of  things  Into  things.  Use  and  wont,  respectable 
hearsay,  respectable  formula:  all  these  are  good, 
or  are  not  good.  There  is  something  behind  and 
beyond  all  these,  which  all  these  must  correspond 
with,  be  the  image  of,  or  they  are — Idolatries;  ‘ bits 
of  black  wood  pretending  to  be  God to  the  earnest 
soul  a mockery  and  abomination.  Idolatries  never 
so  gilded,  waited-on  by  heads  of  the  Koreish,  will 
do  nothing  for  this  man.  Though  all  men  walk  by 
them,  what  good  is  it?  The  great  Reality  stands 
glaring  there  upon  him.  He  there  has  to  answer  it, 
or  perish  miserably.  Now,  even  now,  or  else  through 
all  Eternity  never ! Answer  it ; thou  must  find  an 
answer. — Ambition?  What  could  all  Arabia  do  for 
this  man ; with  the  crown  of  Greek  Heraclius,  of 
Persian  Ghosroes,  and  all  crowns  in  the  Earth  ; — 
what  could  they  all  do  for  him  ? It  was  not  of  the 
! Earth  he  wanted  to  hear  tell ; it  was  of  the  Heaven 
above  and  of  the  Hell  beneath.  All  crowns  and 
sovereignties  whatsoever,  where  would  they  in  a few 
brief  years  be  ? To  be  Sheik  of  Mecca  or  Arabia, 
and  have  a bit  of  gilt  wood  put  into  your  hand, — 
will  that  be  one’s  salvation  ? I decidedly  think,  not. 
We  will  leave  it  altogether,  this  impostor  hypothesis, 
68 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

as  not  credible ; not  very  tolerable  even,  worthy 
chiefly  of  dismissal  by  us, 

Mahomet  had  been  wont  to  retire  yearly,  during 
the  month  Ramadhan,  into  solitude  and  silence; 
as  indeed  was  the  Arab  custom  ; a praiseworthy 
custom,  which  such  a man,  above  all,  would  find 
natural  and  useful.  Communing  with  his  own  heart, 
in  the  silence  of  the  mountains ; himself  silent ; open 
to  the  ‘ small  still  voices : ’ it  was  a right  natural 
custom  ! Mahomet  was  in  his  fortieth  year,  when 
having  withdrawn  to  a cavern  in  Mount  Hara,  near 
Mecca,  during  this  Ramadhan,  to  pass  the  month 
in  prayer,  and  meditation  on  those  great  questions, 
he  one  day  told  his  wife  Kadijah,  who  with  his 
household  was  with  him  or  near  him  this  year.  That 
by  the  unspeakable  special  favour  of  Heaven  he  had 
now  found  it  all  out ; was  in  doubt  and  darkness  no 
longer,  but  saw  it  all,/; That  all  these  Idols  and  < 
Formulas  were  nothing,  miserable  bits  of  wood;  \ 
that  there  was  One  God  in  and  over  all ; and  we  ] 
must  leave  all  Idols,  and  look  to  Him,  That  God  is 
great ; and  that  there  is  nothing  else  great ! He  is 
the  Reality,  Wooden  Idols  are  not  real ; He  is  real. 
He  made  us  at  first,  sustains  us  yet ; we  and  all  J 
things  are  but  the  shadow  of  Him  ; a transitory 
garment  veiling  the  Eternal  Splendour,  ^ Allah  akbar, 
God  is  great;’ — and  then  also  ^ Islam, ^ That  we  must 
submit  to  God,  That  our  whole  strength  lies  in 
resigned  submission  to  Him,  whatsoever  He  do 
to  us.  For  this  world,  and  for  the  other!  The 
thing  He  sends  to  us,  were  it  death  and  worse  than 
death,  shall  be  good,  shall  be  best ; we  resign  our- 
selves to  God. — ‘ If  this  be  Islam,^  says  Goethe,  ‘ do 
we  not  all  live  in  Islam  Yes,  all  of  us  that  have 
any  moral  life  ; we  all  live  so.  It  has  ever  been 
held  the  highest  wisdom  for  a man  not  merely  to 

69 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

submit  to  Necessity, — Necessity  will  make  him 
submit, — but  to  know  and  believe  well  that  the  stern 
thing  which  Necessity  had  ordered  was  the  wisest, 
the  best,  the  thing  wanted  there.  To  cease  his  frantic 
pretension  of  scanning  this  great  God’s-World  in 
his  small  fraction  of  a brain ; to  know  that  it  had 
verily,  though  deep  beyond  his  soundings,  a Just 
Law,  that  the  soul  of  It  was  Good ; — that  his  part 
in  it  was  to  conform  to  the  Law  of  the  Whole,  and 
1 in  devout  silence  follow  that ; not  questioning  it, 

I obeying  it  as  unquestionable, 

I say,  this  is  yet  the  only  true  morality  known.  A 
man  Is  right  and  invincible,  virtuous  and  on  the  road 
towards  sure  conquest,  precisely  while  he  joins  him- 
self to  the  great  deep  Law  of  the  World,  in  spite  of 
all  superficial  laws,  temporary  appearances,  profit- 
and-loss  calculations ; he  is  victorious  while  he  co- 
operates with  that  great  central  Law,  not  victorious 
otherwise  : — and  surely  his  first  chance  of  co-operat- 
ing with  it,  or  getting  into  the  course  of  it,  is  to  know 
with  his  whole  soul  that  It  is;  that  It  is  good,  and 
alone  good ! This  Is  the  soul  of  Islam ; It  is  properly 
the  soul  of  Christianity ; — for  Islam  is  definable  as 
a confused  form  of  Christianity ; had  Christianity 
not  been,  neither  had  it  been.  Christianity  also  com- 
mands us,  before  all,  to  be  resigned  to  God.  We  are 
to  take  no  counsel  with  flesh-and-blood ; give  ear  to 
no  vain  cavils,  vain  sorrows  and  wishes;  to  know  that 
we  know  nothing ; that  the  worst  and  cruellest  to  our 
eyes  is  not  what  it  seems ; that  we  have  to  receive 
whatsoever  befals  us  as  sent  from  God  above,  and 
say.  It  is  good  and  wise,  God  is  great ! “ Though  He 
slay  me,  yet  will  I trust  in  Him.”  Islam  means  in  its 
way  Denial  of  Self,  Annihilation  of  Self.  This  is  yet 
the  highest  Wisdom  that  Heaven  has  revealed  to  our 
* Earth, 

70 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

Such  light  had  come,  as  it  could,  to  illuminate  the 
darkness  of  this  wild  Arab  soul.  A confused  dazzling 
splendour  as  of  life  and  Heaven,  in  the  great  dark- 
ness which  threatened  to  be  death  : he  called  it  reve- 
lation and  the  angel  Gabriel ; — who  of  us  yet  can 
know  what  to  call  it  ? It  is  the  ‘ inspiration  of  the  / f 
Almighty’  that  giveth  us  understanding.  To  know; 
to  get  into  the  truth  of  anything,  is  ever  a mystic 
act, — of  which  the  best  Logics  can  but  babble  on  the 
surface.  ‘ Is  not  Belief  the  true  god-announcing 
Miracle?’  says  Novalis. — That  Mahomet’s  whole 
soul,  set  in  flame  with  this  grand  Truth  vouchsafed 
him,  should  feel  as  if  it  were  important  and  the  only 
important  thing,  was  very  natural.  That  Providence 
had  unspeakably  honoured  him  by  revealing  it,  saving 
him  from  death  and  darkness;  that  he  therefore 
was  bound  to  make  known  the  same  to  all  crea- 
tures : this  is  what  was  meant  by  ‘ Mahomet  is  the 
Prophet  of  God ; ’ this  too  is  not  without  its  true 
meaning. — 

The  good  Kadijah,  we  can  fancy,  listened  to  him 
with  wonder,  with  doubt : at  length  she  answered : 
Yes,  it  was  true  this  that  he  said.  One  can  fancy  too 
the  boundless  gratitude  of  Mahomet ; and  how  of 
all  the  kindnesses  she  had  done  him,  this  of  believ- 
ing the  earnest  struggling  word  he  now  spoke  was 
the  greatest.  ‘ It  is  certain,’  says  Novalis,  ‘my  Con- 
viction gains  infinitely,  the  moment  another  soul 
will  believe  in  it.’  It  is  a boundless  favour. — He 
never  forgot  this  good  Kadijah.  Long  afterwards, 
Ayesha  his  young  favourite  wife,  a woman  who 
indeed  distinguished  herself  among  the  Moslem,  by 
all  manner  of  qualities,  through  her  whole  long  life ; 
this  young  brilliant  Ayesha  was,  one  day,  question- 
ing him  : “ Now  am  not  I better  than  Kadijah  ? She 
was  a widow  ; old,  and  had  lost  her  looks  : you  love 

71 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

me  better  than  you  did  her  ? — ‘‘  No,  by  Allah ! ” 

n t answered  Mahomet : “ No,  by  Allah  ! She  believed 
I in  me  when  none  else  would  believe.  In  the  whole 
world  I had  but  one  friend,  and  she  was  that!” — 
Seid,  his  Slave,  also  believed  in  him ; these  with  his 
young  Cousin  Ali,  Abu  Thaleb’s  son,  were  his  first 
converts. 

^ He  spoke  of  his  Doctrine  to  this  man  and  that ; 

, but  the  most  treated  it  with  ridicule,  with  indiffer- 

'^'^ence;  in  three  years,  I think,  he  had  gained  but 
thirteen  followers.  His  progress  was  slow  enough. 
His  encouragement  to  go  on,  was  altogether  the 
usual  encouragement  that  such  a man  in  such  a case 
meets.  After  some  three  years  of  small  success,  he 
invited  forty  of  his  chief  kindred  to  an  entertain- 
ment ; and  there  stood-up  and  told  them  what  his 
pretension  was : that  he  had  this  thing  to  promul- 
gate abroad  to  all  men ; that  it  was  the  highest  thing, 
the  one  thing : which  of  them  would  second  him  in 
that  ? Amid  the  doubt  and  silence  of  all,  young  Ali, 
as  yet  a lad  of  sixteen,  impatient  of  the  silence, 
started-up,  and  exclaimed  in  passionate  fierce  lan- 
guage, That  he  would  I The  assembly,  among  whom 
was  Abu  Thaleb,  Ali’s  Father,  could  not  be  un- 
friendly to  Mahomet;  yet  the  sight  there,  of  one 
unlettered  elderly  man,  with  a lad  of  sixteen,  decid- 
ing on  such  an  enterprise  against  all  mankind,  ap- 
peared ridiculous  to  them ; the  assembly  broke-up 
in  laughter.  Nevertheless  it  proved  not  a laughable 
thing ; it  was  a very  serious  thing  ! As  for  this  young 
Ali,  one  cannot  but  like  him.  A noble-minded  crea- 
ture, as  he  shows  himself,  now  and  always  after- 
wards ; full  of  affection,  of  fiery  daring.  Something 
chivalrous  in  him  ; brave  as  a lion  ; yet  with  a grace, 
a truth  and  affection  worthy  of  Christian  knighthood. 
He  died  by  assassination  in  the  Mosque  at  Bagdad ; 
72 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

a death  occasioned  by  his  own  generous  fairness, 
confidence  in  the  fairness  of  others  : he  said.  If  the 
wound  proved  not  unto  death,  they  must  pardon  the 
Assassin;  but  if  it  did,  then  they  must  slay  him 
straightway,  that  so  they  two  in  the  same  hour  might 
appear  before  God,  and  see  which  side  of  that 
quarrel  was  the  just  one  ! 

Mahomet  naturally  gave  offence  to  the  Koreish, 
Keepers  of  the  Gaabah,  superintendents  of  the  Idols. 
One  or  two  men  of  influence  had  joined  him : the 
thing  spread  slowly,  but  it  was  spreading.  Naturally 
he  gave  offence  to  everybody : Who  is  this  that  pre- 
tends to  be  wiser  than  we  all ; that  rebukes  us  all, 
as  mere  fools  and  worshipers  of  wood  ! Abu  Thaleb 
the  good  Uncle  spoke  with  him : Could  he  not  be 
silent  about  all  that ; believe  it  all  for  himself,  and 
not  trouble  others,  anger  the  chief  men,  endanger 
himself  and  them  all,  talking  of  it  ? Mahomet  an- 
swered : If  the  Sun  stood  on  his  right  hand  and  the 
Moon  on  his  left,  ordering  him  to  hold  his  peace,  he 
could  not  obey ! No : there  was  something  in  this 
Truth  he  had  got  which  was  of  Nature  herself;  equal 
in  rank  to  Sun,  or  Moon,  or  whatsoever  thing  Na- 
ture had  made.  It  would  speak  itself  there,  so  long 
as  the  Almighty  allowed  it,  in  spite  of  Sun  and  Moon, 
and  all  Koreish  and  all  men  and  things.  It  must  do 
that,  and  could  do  no  other.  Mahomet  answered  so ; 
and,  they  say,  ‘ burst  into  tears.^  Burst  into  tears : 
he  felt  that  Abu  Thaleb  was  good  to  him ; that  the 
task  he  had  got  was  no  soft,  but  a stern  and  great 
one. 

He  went-on  speaking  to  who  would  listen  to 
him ; publishing  his  Doctrine  among  the  pilgrims 
as  they  came  to  Mecca ; gaining  adherents  in  this 
place  and  that.  Continual  contradiction,  hatred, 
open  or  secret  danger  attended  him.  His  powerful 

73 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

relations  protected  Mahomet  himself ; but  by  and 
by,  on  his  own  advice,  all  his  adherents  had  to 
quit  Mecca,  and  seek  refuge  in  Abyssinia  over  the 
sea.  The  Koreish  grew  ever  angrier;  laid  plots, 
and  swore  oaths  among  them,  to  put  Mahomet  to 
death  with  their  own  hands.  Abu  Thaleb  was 
dead,  the  good  Kadijah  was  dead.  Mahomet  is  not 
solicitous  of  sympathy  from  us ; but  his  outlook  at 
this  time  was  one  of  the  dismallest.  He  had  to 
hide  in  caverns,  escape  in  disguise ; fly  hither  and 
thither;  homeless,  in  continual  peril  of  his  life. 
More  than  once  it  seemed  all-over  with  him  ; more 
than  once  it  turned  on  a straw,  some  rider’s  horse 
taking  fright  or  the  like,  whether  Mahomet  and 
his  Doctrine  had  not  ended  there,  and  not  been 
heard  of  at  all.  But  it  was  not  to  end  so. 

In  the  thirteenth  year  of  his  mission,  finding  his 
enemies  all  banded  against  him,  forty  sworn  men, 
one  out  of  every  tribe,  waiting  to  take  his  life,  and 
no  continuance  possible  at  Mecca  for  him  any 
longer,  Mahomet  fled  to  the  place  then  called 
Yathreb,  where  he  had  gained  some  adherents; 
the  place  they  now  call  Medina,  or  ‘ Medinat  al 
Nabi,  the  City  of  the  Prophet,’  from  that  circum- 
stance. It  lay  some  200  miles  ofiF,  through  rocks 
and  deserts ; not  without  great  difficulty,  in  such 
mood  as  we  may  fancy,  he  escaped  thither,  and 
found  welcome.  The  whole  East  dates  its  era  from 
this  Flight,  Hegira  as  they  name  it : the  Year  1 of 
this  Hegira  is  622  of  our  Era,  the  fifty-third  of 
Mahomet’s  life.  He  was  now  becoming  an  old 
man ; his  friends  sinking  round  him  one  by  one ; 
his  path  desolate,  encompassed  with  danger:  un- 
less he  could  find  hope  in  his  own  heart,  the  out- 
ward face  of  things  was  but  hopeless  for  him.  It  is 
so  with  all  men  in  the  like  case.  Hitherto  Mahomet 
74 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

had  professed  to  publish  his  Religion  by  the  way  of 
preaching  and  persuasion  alone.  But  now,  driven 
foully  out  of  his  native  country,  since  unjust  men 
had  not  only  given  no  ear  to  his  earnest  Heaven’s- 
message,  the  deep  cry  of  his  heart,  but  would  not 
even  let  him  live  if  he  kept  speaking  it, — the  wild 
Son  of  the  Desert  resolved  to  defend  himself,  like 
a man  and  Arab.  If  the  Koreish  will  have  it  so, 
they  shall  have  it.  Tidings,  felt  to  be  of  infinite 
moment  to  them  and  all  men,  they  would  not  listen 
to  these ; would  trample  them  down  by  sheer  vio- 
lence, steel  and  murder ; well,  let  steel  try  it  then  ! 
Ten  years  more  this  Mahomet  had;  all  of  fight- 
ing, of  breathless  impetuous  toil  and  struggle  ; with 
what  result  we  know. 

Much  has  been  said  of  Mahomet’s  propagating 
his  Religion  by  the  sword.  It  is  no  doubt  far 
nobler  what  we  have  to  boast  of  the  Christian 
Religion,  that  it  propagated  itself  peaceably  in  the 
way  of  preaching  and  conviction.  Yet  withal,  if 
we  take  this  for  an  argument  of  the  truth  or  false- 
hood of  a religion,  there  is  a radical  mistake  in  it. 
The  sword  indeed:  but  where  will  you  get  your 
sword ! Every  new  opinion,  at  its  starting,  is  pre- 
cisely in  a minority  of  one.  In  one  man’s  head  alone, 
there  it  dwells  as  yet.  One  man  alone  of  the  whole 
world  believes  it ; there  is  one  man  against  all  men. 
That  he  take  a sword,  and  try  to  propagate  with 
that,  will  do  little  for  him.  You  must  first  get  your  j 
sword  ! On  the  whole,  a thing  will  propagate  itself 
as  it  can.  We  do  not  find,  of  the  Christian  Religion 
either,  that  it  always  disdained  the  sword,  when 
once  it  had  got  one.  Charlemagne’s  conversion  of 
the  Saxons  was  not  by  preaching.  I care  little 
about  the  sword : I will  allow  a thing  to  struggle 
for  itself  in  this  world,  with  any  sword  or  tongue 

75 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

or  Implement  it  has,  or  can  lay  hold  of.  We  will 
let  it  preach,  and  pamphleteer,  and  fight,  and  to 
the  uttermost  bestir  Itself,  and  do,  beak  and  claws, 
whatsoever  is  In  it ; very  sure  that  it  will,  in  the 
longrun,  conquer  nothing  which  does  not  deserve 
to  be  conquered.  What  is  better  than  Itself,  it 
cannot  put  away,  but  only  what  is  worse.  In  this 
great  Duel,  Nature  herself  is  umpire,  and  can  do 
no  wrong:  the  thing  which  Is  deepest-rooted  in 
Nature,  what  we  call  truest,  that  thing  and  not  the 
other  will  be  found  growing  at  last. 

Here  however,  in  reference  to  much  that  there 
Is  In  Mahomet  and  his  success,  we  are  to  remember 
what  an  umpire  Nature  Is ; what  a greatness,  com- 
posure of  depth  and  tolerance  there  is  in  her.  You 
take  wheat  to  cast  into  the  Earth’s  bosom : your 
wheat  may  be  mixed  with  chaff,  chopped  straw, 
barn-sweepings,  dust  and  all  Imaginable  rubbish ; 
no  matter : you  cast  it  Into  the  kind  just  Earth;  she 
grows  the  wheat, — the  whole  rubbish  she  silently 
absorbs,  shrouds  it  in,  says  nothing  of  the  rubbish. 
The  yellow  wheat  is  growing  there  ; the  good  Earth 
is  silent  about  all  the  rest, — has  silently  turned  all 
the  rest  to  some  benefit  too,  and  makes  no  com- 
plaint about  it ! So  everywhere  in  Nature.  She  is 
true  and  not  a He ; and  yet  so  great,  and  just,  and 
motherly  in  her  truth.  She  requires  of  a thing  only 
that  it  be  genuine  of  heart ; she  will  protect  it  If  so ; 
will  not,  if  not  so.  There  Is  a soul  of  truth  in  all  the 
things  she  ever  gave  harbour  to.  Alas,  is  not  this 
the  history  of  all  highest  Truth  that  comes  or  ever 
came  into  the  world  ? The  body  of  them  all  is  Im- 
perfection, an  element  of  light  in  darkness : to  us 
they  have  to  come  embodied  in  mere  Logic,  In  some 
merely  scientific  Theorem  of  the  Universe ; which 
cannot  be  complete  ; which  cannot  but  be  found,  one 
76 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

day,  incomplete,  erroneous,  and  so  die  and  disappear. 
The  body  of  all  Truth  dies ; and  yet  in  all,  I say, 
there  is  a soul  which  never  dies ; which  in  new  and 
ever-nobler  embodiment  lives  immortal  as  man  him- 
self! It  is  the  way  with  Nature.  The  genuine  essence 
of  Truth  never  dies.  That  it  be  genuine,  a voice  from 
the  great  Deep  of  Nature,  there  is  the  point  at 
Nature’s  judgment-seat.  What  we  call  pure  or  im- 
pure, is  not  with  her  the  final  question.  Not  how 
much  chaff  is  in  you  ; but  whether  you  have  any 
wheat.  Pure?  I might  say  to  many  a man:  Yes, 
you  are  pure ; pure  enough  ; but  you  are  chaff, — 
insincere  hypothesis,  hearsay,  formality ; you  never 
were  in  contact  with  the  great  heart  of  the  Universe 
at  all ; you  are  properly  neither  pure  nor  impure ; 
you  are  nothing.  Nature  has  no  business  with  you. 

Mahomet’s  Greed  we  called  a kind  of  Chris- 
tianity ; and  really,  if  we  look  at  the  wild  rapt 
earnestness  with  which  it  was  believed  and  laid  to 
heart,  I should  say  a better  kind  than  that  of  those 
miserable  Syrian  Sects,  with  their  vain  janglings 
about  Homoiousion  and  Homoousion,  the  head  full  of 
worthless  noise,  the  heart  empty  and  dead ! The 
truth  of  it  is  embedded  in  portentous  error  and  false- 
hood ; but  the  truth  of  it  makes  it  be  believed,  not 
the  falsehood  : it  succeeded  by  its  truth.  A bastard 
kind  of  Christianity,  but  a living  kind;  with  a heart- 
life  in  it ; not  dead,  chopping  barren  logic  merely  ! 
Out  of  all  that  rubbish  of  Arab  idolatries,  argumen- 
tative theologies,  traditions,  subtleties,  rumours  and 
hypotheses  of  Greeks  and  Jews,  with  their  idle  wire- 
drawings,  this  wild  man  of  the  Desert,  with  his  wild 
sincere  heart,  earnest  as  death  and  life,  with  his 
great  flashing  natural  eyesight,  had  seen  into  the 
kernel  of  the  matter.  Idolatry  is  nothing:  these 
Wooden  Idols  of  yours,  ‘ ye  rub  them  with  oil  and 

77 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

wax,  and  the  flies  stick  on  them,’ — these  are  wood, 
I tell  you  ! They  can  do  nothing  for  you , they  are 
an  impotent  blasphemous  pretence ; a horror  and 
abomination,  if  ye  knew  them.  God  alone  is ; God 
alone  has  power  ; He  made  us.  He  can  kill  us  and 
keep  us  alive  : ^ Allah  akbar,  God  is  great.’  Under- 
stand that  His  will  is  the  best  for  you  ; that  howso- 
ever sore  to  flesh-and-blood,  you  will  find  it  the 
wisest,  best : you  are  bound  to  take  it  so  ; in  this 
world  and  in  the  next,  you  have  no  other  thing  that 
you  can  do  ! — And  now  if  the  wild  idolatrous  men 
did  believe  this,  and  with  their  fiery  hearts  lay-hold 
of  it  to  do  it,  in  what  form  soever  it  came  to  them, 
I say  it  was  well  worthy  of  being  believed.  In  one 
form  or  the  other,  I say  it  is  still  the  one  thing 
worthy  of  being  believed  by  all  men.  Man  does 
hereby  become  the  high-priest  of  this  Temple  of  a 
World.  He  is  in  harmony  with  the  Decrees  of  the 
Author  of  this  World  ; co-operating  with  them,  not 
vainly  withstanding  them ; I know,  to  this  day,  no 
better  definition  of  Duty  than  that  same.  All  that 
is  right  includes  Itself  in  this  of  co-operating  with 
the  real  Tendency  of  the  World  ; you  succeed  by 
this  (the  World’s  Tendency  will  succeed),  you  are 
good,  and  in  the  right  course  there.  Homoiousion, 
Homoousion,  vain  logical  jangle,  then  or  before  or  at 
any  time,  may  jangle  itself  out,  and  go  whither  and 
how  it  likes : this  is  the  thing  it  all  struggles  to  mean, 
if  it  would  mean  anything.  If  it  do  not  succeed  in 
meaning  this,  it  means  nothing.  Not  that  Abstrac- 
tions, logical  Propositions,  be  correctly  worded  or 
incorrectly ; but  that  living  concrete  Sons  of  Adam 
do  lay  this  to  heart : that  is  the  important  point. 
Islam  devoured  all  these  vain  jangling  Sects ; and 
I think  had  right  to  do  so.  It  was  a Reality,  direct 
from  the  great  Heart  of  Nature  once  more.  Arab 
78 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

idolatries,  Syrian  formulas,  whatsoever  was  not 
equally  real,  had  to  go  up  in  flame,— mere  dead 
fuel,  in  various  senses,  for  this  which  was  fire. 

It  was  during  these  wild  warfarings  and  strug- 
glings,  especially  after  the  Flight  to  Mecca,  that 
Mahomet  dictated  at  intervals  his  Sacred  Book, 
which  they  name  Koran,  or  Reading,  ‘ Thing  to  be 
read/  This  is  the  Work  he  and  his  disciples  made 
so  much  of,  asking  all  the  world.  Is  not  that  a 
miracle?  The  Mahometans  regard  their  Koran 
with  a reverence  which  few  Christians  pay  even 
to  their  Bible.  It  Is  admitted  everywhere  as  the 
standard  of  all  law  and  all  practice  ; the  thing  to  be 
gone- upon  In  speculation  and  life  : the  message  sent 
direct  out  of  Heaven,  which  this  Earth  has  to  con- 
form to,  and  walk  by  ; the  thing  to  be  read.  Their 
Judges  decide  by  It ; all  Moslem  are  bound  to  study 
it,  seek  in  it  for  the  light  of  their  life.  They  have 
mosques  where  It  is  all  read  dally ; thirty  relays  of 
priests  take  it  up  in  succession,  get  through  the 
whole  each  day.  There,  for  twelve-hundred  years, 
has  the  voice  of  this  Book,  at  all  moments,  kept 
sounding  through  the  ears  and  the  hearts  of  so 
many  men.  We  hear  of  Mahometan  Doctors  that 
had  read  it  seventy-thousand  times ! 

Very  curious : if  one  sought  for  ‘ discrepancies  of 
national  taste/  here  surely  were  the  most  eminent 
Instance  of  that ! We  also  can  read  the  Koran ; our 
Translation  of  it,  by  Sale,  is  known  to  be  a very  fair 
one.  I must  say,  it  is  as  toilsome  reading  as  I ever 
undertook.  A wearisome  confused  jumble,  crude, 
incondite ; endless  iterations,  longwindedness,  en- 
tanglement ; most  crude, incondite; — insupportable 
stupidity,  in  short ! Nothing  but  a sense  of  duty 
could  carry  any  European  through  the  Koran.  We 

79 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

read  in  it,  as  we  might  in  the  State-Paper  Office, 
unreadable  masses  of  lumber,  that  perhaps  we  may 
get  some  glimpses  of  a remarkable  man.  It  is  true 
we  have  it  under  disadvantages : the  Arabs  see 
more  method  in  it  than  we.  Mahomet’s  followers 
found  the  Koran  lying  all  in  fractions,  as  it  had  been 
written-down  at  first  promulgation ; much  of  it,  they 
say,  on  shoulder-blades  of  mutton,  flung  pellmell 
into  a chest : and  they  published  it,  without  any 
discoverable  order  as  to  time  or  otherwise; — merely 
trying,  as  would  seem,  and  this  not  very  strictly,  to 
put  the  longest  chapters  first.  The  real  beginning  of 
it,  in  that  way,  lies  almost  at  the  end : for  the  earliest 
portions  were  the  shortest.  Read  in  its  historical 
sequence  it  perhaps  would  not  be  so  bad.  Much 
of  it,  too,  they  say,  is  rhythmic;  a kind  of  wild  chant- 
ing song,  in  the  original.  This  may  be  a great  point ; 
much  perhaps  has  been  lost  in  the  Translation  here. 
jYet  with  every  allowance,  one  feels  it  difficult  to 
jsee  how  any  mortal  ever  could  consider  this  Koran 
las  a Book  written  in  Heaven,  too  good  for  the  Earth ; 
^as  a well- written  book,  or  indeed  as  a book  at  all ; 
land  not  a bewildered  rhapsody  ; written^  so  far  as 
! writing  goes,  as  badly  as  almost  any  book  ever 
I was  ! So  much  for  national  discrepancies,  and  the 
I standard  of  taste. 

Yet  I should  say,  it  was  not  unintelligible  how  the 
Arabs  might  so  love  it.  When  once  you  get  this 
confused  coil  of  a Koran  fairly  off  your  hands,  and 
have  it  behind  you  at  a distance,  the  essential  type 
of  it  begins  to  disclose  itself ; and  in  this  there  is  a 
merit  quite  other  than  the  literary  one.  If  a book 
come  from  the  heart,  it  will  contrive  to  reach  other 
hearts ; all  art  and  authorcraft  are  of  small  amount 
to  that.  One  would  say  the  primary  character  of 
the  Koran  is  this  of  its  genuineness,  of  its  being  a 
80 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

bona-fide  book.  Prideaux,  I know,  and  others  have 
represented  it  as  a mere  bundle  of  juggleries ; 
chapter  after  chapter  got-up  to  excuse  and  varnish 
the  author’s  successive  sins,  forward  his  ambitions 
and  quackeries  : but  really  it  is  time  to  dismiss  all 
that.  I do  not  assert  Mahomet’s  continual  sincerity : 
who  is  continually  sincere  ? But  I confess  I can 
make  nothing  of  the  critic,  in  these  times,  who 
would  accuse  him  of  deceit  prepense;  of  conscious 
deceit  generally,  or  perhaps  at  all still  more,  of 
living  in  a mere  element  of  conscious  deceit,  and 
writing  this  Koran  as  a forger  and  juggler  would 
have  done ! Every  candid  eye,  I think,  will  read 
the  Koran  far  otherwise  than  so.  It  is  the  con- 
fused ferment  of  a great  rude  human  soul ; rude,  un-  i 
tutored,  that  cannot  even  read  ; but  fervent,  earnest,  I 
struggling  vehemently  to  utter  itself  in  words.  With  ' 
a kind  of  breathless  intensity  he  strives  to  utter 
himself ; the  thoughts  crowd  on  him  pellmell : for 
very  multitude  of  things  to  say,  he  can  get  nothing 
said.  The  meaning  that  is  in  him  shapes  itself  into 
no  form  of  composition,  is  stated  in  no  sequence, 
method,  or  coherence ; — they  are  not  shaped  at  all, 
these  thoughts  of  his  ; flung-out  unshaped,  as  they 
struggle  and  tumble  there,  in  their  chaotic  inarticu- 
late state.  We  said  ‘ stupid : ’ yet  natural  stupidity 
is  by  no  means  the  character  of  Mahomet’s  Book ; 
it  is  natural  uncultivation  rather.  The  man  has  not 
studied  speaking ; in  the  haste  and  pressure  of  con- 
tinual fighting,  has  not  time  to  mature  himself  into 
fit  speech.  The  panting  breathless  haste  and  vehe- 
mence of  a man  struggling  in  the  thick  of  battle 
for  life  and  salvation  ; this  is  the  mood  he  is  in  ! 

A headlong  haste;  for  very  magnitude  of  mean- 
ing, he  cannot  get  himself  articulated  into  words. 
The  successive  utterances  of  a soul  in  that  mood, 
f 81 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

coloured  by  the  various  vicissitudes  of  three-and- 
twenty  years  ; now  well  uttered,  now  worse  : this 
is  the  Koran. 

For  we  are  to  consider  Mahomet,  through  these 
three-and-twenty  years,  as  the  centre  of  a world 
wholly  in  conflict.  Battles  with  the  Koreish  and 
Heathen,  quarrels  among  his  own  people,  back- 
slidings  of  his  own  wild  heart ; all  this  kept  him  in 
a perpetual  whirl,  his  soul  knowing  rest  no  more. 
In  wakeful  nights,  as  one  may  fancy,  the  wild  soul 
of  the  man,  tossing  amid  these  vortices,  would  hail 
any  light  of  a decision  for  them  as  a veritable  light 
from  Heaven ; any  making-up  of  his  mind,  so  blessed, 
indispensable  for  him  there,  would  seem  the  inspira- 
tion of  a Gabriel.  Forger  and  juggler?  No,  no! 
This  great  fiery  heart,  seething,  simmering  like  a 
great  furnace  of  thoughts,  was  not  a juggler’s.  His 
Life  was  a F act  to  him ; this  God’s  Universe  an  awful 
Fact  and  Reality.  He  has  faults  enough.  The  man 
was  an  uncultured  semi-barbarous  Son  of  Nature, 
much  of  the  Bedouin  still  clinging  to  him  : we  must 
take  him  for  that.  But  for  a wretched  Simulacrum, 
a hungry  Impostor  without  eyes  or  heart,  practising 
for  a mess  of  pottage  such  blasphemous  swindlery, 
forgery  ofcelestial  documents,  continual  high- treason 
against  his  Maker  and  Self,  we  will  not  and  cannot 
take  him. 

Sincerity,  in  all  senses,  seems  to  me  the  merit  of 
the  Koran ; what  had  rendered  it  precious  to  the 
wild  Arab  men.  It  is,  after  all,  the  first  and  last 
merit  in  a book ; gives  rise  to  merits  of  all  kinds, — 
nay,  at  bottom,  it  alone  can  give  rise  to  merit  of  any 
kind.  Curiously,  through  these  incondite  masses 
of  tradition,  vituperation,  complaint,  ejaculation  in 
the  Koran,  a vein  of  true  direct  insight,  of  what  we 
might  almost  call  poetry,  is  found  straggling.  The 
82 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

body  of  the  Book  is  made-up  of  mere  tradition,  and 
as  it  were  vehement  enthusiastic  extempore  preach- 
ing. He  returns  forever  to  the  old  stories  of  the 
Prophets  as  they  went  current  in  the  Arab  memory : 
how  Prophet  after  Prophet,  the  Prophet  Abraham, 
the  Prophet  Hud,  the  Prophet  Moses,  Christian  and 
other  real  and  fabulous  Prophets,  had  come  to  this 
Tribe  and  to  that,  warning  men  of  their  sin ; and 
been  received  by  them  even  as  he  Mahomet  was, — 
which  is  a great  solace  to  him.  These  things  he 
repeats  ten,  perhaps  twenty  times ; again  and  ever 
again,  with  wearisome  iteration ; has  never  done 
repeating  them.  A brave  Samuel  Johnson,  in  his 
forlorn  garret,  might  con-over  the  Biographies  of 
Authors  in  that  way ! This  is  the  great  staple  of 
the  Koran.  But  curiously,  through  all  this,  comes 
ever  and  anon  some  glance  as  of  the  real  thinker  and 
seer.  He  has  actually  an  eye  for  the  world,  this 
Mahomet : with  a certain  directness  and  rugged 
vigour,  he  brings  home  still,  to  our  heart,  the  thing 
his  own  heart  has  been  opened  to.  I make  but  little 
of  his  praises  of  Allah,  which  many  praise;  they 
are  borrowed  I suppose  mainly  from  the  Hebrew, 
at  least  they  are  far  surpassed  there.  But  the  eye 
that  flashes  direct  into  the  heart  of  things,  and  sees 
the  truth  of  them;  this  is  to  me  a highly  interesting 
object.  Great  Nature’s  own  gift ; which  she  bestows 
on  all ; but  which  only  one  in  the  thousand  does  not 
cast  sorrowfully  away : it  is  what  I call  sincerity  of 
vision;  the  test  of  a sincere  heart.  Mahomet  can  ^ 
work  no  miracles ; he  often  answers  impatiently  : I \ 
can  work  no  miracles.  I?  T am  a Public  Preacher;’ 
appointed  to  preach  this  doctrine  to  all  creatures. 
Yet  the  world,  as  we  can  see,  had  really  from  of  old 
been  all  one  great  miracle  to  him.  Look  over  the 
world,  says  he  ; is  it  not  wonderful,  the  work  of 

83 


f 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Allah ; wholly  ‘ a sign  to  you/  If  your  eyes  were 
open ! This  Earth,  God  made  it  for  you ; ‘appointed 
paths  In  it ; ’ you  can  live  in  it,  go  to  and  fro  on 
it. — The  clouds  In  the  dry  country  of  Arabia,  to 
Mahomet  they  are  very  wonderful : Great  clouds, 
he  says,  born  in  the  deep  bosom  of  the  Upper  Im- 
mensity, where  do  they  come  from ! They  hang 
there,  the  great  black  monsters ; pour-down  their 
rain-deluges  ‘to  revive  a dead  earth/  and  grass 
springs,  and  ‘ tall  leafy  palm-trees  with  their  date- 
clusters  hanging  round.  Is  not  that  a sign  ? ^ Your 
cattle  too, — Allah  made  them;  serviceable  dumb 
j creatures ; they  change  the  grass  Into  milk ; you 
\ have  your  clothing  from  them,  very  strange  crea- 
^ tures  ; they  come  ranking  home  at  evening-time, 
® ‘ and/  adds  he,  ‘ and  are  a credit  to  you  ! ’ Ships 
also, — he  talks  often  about  ships : Huge  moving 
mountains,  they  spread-out  their  cloth  wings,  go 
bounding  through  the  water  there.  Heaven’s  wind 
driving  them ; anon  they  He  motionless,  God  has 
withdrawn  the  wind,  they  lie  dead,  and  cannot  stir ! 
Miracles?  cries  he:  Whatmiracle  would  you  have? 
Are  not  you  yourselves  there?  God  made  you, 
‘shaped  you  out  of  a little  clay.’  Ye  were  small 
once ; a few  years  ago  ye  were  not  at  all.  Ye  have 
beauty,  strength,  thoughts,  ‘ ye  have  compassion  on 
one  another.’  Old  age  comes-on  you,  and  gray  hairs ; 
your  strength  fades  into  feebleness  ; ye  sink  down, 
and  again  are  not.  ‘ Ye  have  compassion  on  one 
another : ’ this  struck  me  much  : Allah  might  have 
made  you  having  no  compassion  on  one  another, — 
how  had  it  been  then  ! This  Is  a great  direct  thought, 
a glance  at  first-hand  into  the  very  fact  of  things. 
Rude  vestiges  of  poetic  genius,  of  whatsoever  is 
best  and  truest,  are  visible  in  this  man.  A strong 
untutored  intellect ; eyesight,  heart : a strong  wild 
84 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

man, — might  have  shaped  himself  into  Poet,  King, 
Priest,  any  kind  of  Hero. 

To  his  eyes  it  is  forever  clear  that  this  world 
wholly  is  miraculous.  He  sees  what,  as  we  said 
once  before,  all  great  thinkers,  the  rude  Scandina- 
vians themselves,  in  one  way  or  other,  have  con- 
trived to  see : That  this  so  solid-looking  material 
world  is,  at  bottom,  in  very  deed.  Nothing  ; is  a 
visual  and  tactual  Manifestation  of  God’s  power 
and  presence, — a shadow  hung-out  by  Him  on  the 
bosom  of  the  void  Infinite;  nothing  more.  The 
mountains,  he  says,  these  great  rock-mountains, 
they  shall  dissipate  themselves  ‘ like  clouds ; ’ melt 
into  the  Blue  as  clouds  do,  and  not  be  ! He  figures 
the  Earth,  in  the  Arab  fashion.  Sale  tells  us,  as  an 
immense  Plain  or  flat  Plate  of  ground,  the  moun- 
tains are  set  on  that  to  steady  it.  At  the  Last  Day, 
they  shall  disappear  ‘ like  clouds the  whole  Earth 
shall  go  spinning,  whirl  itself  off  into  wreck,  and  as 
dust  and  vapour  vanish  in  the  Inane.  Allah  with- 
draws his  hand  from  it,  and  it  ceases  to  be.  The 
universal  empire  of  Allah,  presence  everywhere  of 
an  unspeakable  Power,  a Splendour,  and  a Terror 
not  to  be  named,  as  the  true  force,  essence  and 
reality,  in  all  things  whatsoever,  was  continually 
clear  to  this  man.  What  a modern  talks-of  by  the 
name.  Forces  of  Nature,  Laws  of  Nature ; and  does 
not  figure  as  a divine  thing ; not  even  as  one  thing 
at  all,  but  as  a set  of  things,  undivine  enough, — 
saleable,  curious,  good  for  propelling  steam-ships! 
With  our  Sciences  and  Cyclopaedias,  we  are  apt  to 
forget  the  divineness,  in  those  laboratories  of  ours. 
We  ought  not  to  forget  it ! That  once  well  forgotten, 
I know  not  what  else  were  worth  remembering. 
Most  sciences,  I think,  were  then  a very  dead 
thing ; withered,  contentious,  empty  ; — a thistle  in 

85 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

late  autumn.  The  best  science,  without  this,  is  but 
as  the  dead  timber;  it  is  not  the  growing  tree  and 
forest, — which  gives  ever-new  timber,  among  other 
things ! Man  cannot  know  either,  unless  he  can 
worship  in  some  way.  His  knowledge  is  a pedantry, 
and  dead  thistle,  otherwise. 

Much  has  been  said  and  written  about  the  sensu- 
ality of  Mahomet’s  Religion ; more  than  was  just. 
The  indulgences,  criminal  to  us,  which  he  permitted, 
were  not  of  his  appointment ; he  found  them  prac- 
tised, unquestioned  from  immemorial  time  in  Arabia; 
what  he  did  was  to  curtail  them,  restrict  them,  not 
on  one  but  on  many  sides.  His  Religion  is  not  an 
easy  one : with  rigorous  fasts,  lavations,  strict  com- 
plex formulas,  prayers  five  times  a day,  and  abstin- 
ence from  wine,  it  did  not  ‘ succeed  by  being  an  easy 
religion.’  As  if  indeed  any  religion,  or  cause  hold- 
ing of  religion,  could  succeed  by  that ! It  is  a cal- 
umny on  men  to  say  that  they  are  roused  to  heroic 
action  by  ease,  hope  of  pleasure,  recompense, — 
sugar-plums  of  any  kind,  in  this  world  or  the  next ! 
In  the  meanest  mortal  there  lies  something  nobler. 
The  poor  swearing  soldier,  hired  to  be  shot,  has  his 
‘ honour  of  a soldier,’  different  from  drill-regulations 
and  the  shilling  a day.  It  is  not  to  taste  sweet  things, 
but  to  do  noble  and  true  things,  and  vindicate  him- 
self under  God’s  Heaven  as  a god-made  Man,  that 
the  poorest  son  of  Adam  dimly  longs.  Show  him  the 
way  of  doing  that,  the  dullest  day  drudge  kindles  into 
a hero.  They  wrong  man  greatly  who  say  he  is  to 
be  seduced  by  ease.  Difficulty,  abnegation,  martyr- 
dom, death  are  the  allurements  that  act  on  the  heart 
of  man.  Kindle  the  inner  genial  life  of  him,  you  have 
a flame  that  burns-up  all  lower  considerations.  Not 
happiness,  but  something  higher : one  sees  this  even 
in  the  frivolous  classes,  with  their  ‘ point  of  honour  ’ 
86 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

and  the  like.  Not  by  flattering  our  appetites ; no,  by 
awakening  the  Heroic  that  slumbers  in  every  heart, 
can  any  Religion  gain  followers. 

Mahomet  himself,  after  all  that  can  be  said  about 
him,  was  not  a sensual  man.  We  shall  err  widely 
if  we  consider  this  man  as  a common  voluptuary, 
intent  mainly  on  base  enjoyments, — nay  on  enjoy- 
ments of  any  kind.  His  household  was  of  the  fru- 
gallest ; his  common  diet  barley-bread  and  water : 
sometimes  for  months  there  was  not  a fire  once 
lighted  on  his  hearth.  They  record  with  just  pride 
that  he  would  mend  his  own  shoes,  patch  his  own 
cloak.  A poor,  hard-toiling,  ill-provided  man  ; care- 
less of  what  vulgar  men  toil  for.  Not  a bad  man,  I 
should  say ; something  better  in  him  than  hunger  of 
any  sort, — or  these  wild  Arab  men,  fighting  and 
jostling  three-and-twenty  years  at  his  hand,  in  close 
contact  with  him  always,  would  not  have  reverenced 
him  so  ! They  were  wild  men,  bursting  ever  and 
anon  into  quarrel,  into  all  kinds  of  fierce  sincerity ; 
without  right  worth  and  manhood,  no  man  could 
have  commanded  them.  They  called  him  Prophet, 
you  say?  Why,  he  stood  there  face  to  face  with 
them  ; bare,  not  enshrined  in  any  mystery ; visibly 
clouting  his  own  cloak,  cobbling  his  own  shoes; 
fighting,  counselling,  ordering  in  the  midst  of  them  : 
they  must  have  seen  what  kind  of  a man  he  was,  let 
him  be  called  what  you  like  ! No  emperor  with  his 
tiaras  was  obeyed  as  this  man  in  a cloak  of  his  own 
clouting.  During  three-and-twenty  years  of  rough  , 
actual  trial.  I find  something  of  a veritable  Hero  I 
necessary  for  that,  of  itself. 

His  last  words  are  a prayer ; broken  ejaculations 
of  a heart  struggling-up,  in  trembling  hope,  towards 
its  Maker,  We  cannot  say  that  his  religion  made 
him  worse;  it  made  him  better;  good,  not  bad. 

87 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Generous  things  are  recorded  of  him : when  he  lost 
his  Daughter,  the  thing  he  answers  is,  in  his  own  dia- 
lect, everyway  sincere,  and  yet  equivalent  to  that  of 
Christians,  ‘ The  Lord  giveth,  and  the  Lord  taketh 
away ; blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord/  He  an- 
swered in  like  manner  of  Seid,  his  emancipated 
well-beloved  Slave,  the  second  of  the  believers. 
Seid  had  fallen  in  the  War  of  Tabuc,  the  first  of 
Mahomet’s  fightings  with  the  Greeks.  Mahomet 
said.  It  was  well ; Seid  had  done  his  Master’s  work, 
Seid  had  now  gone  to  his  Master : it  was  all  well 
with  Seid.  Yet  Seid’s  daughter  found  him  weeping 
over  the  body ; — the  old  gray-haired  man  melting 
in  tears!  ‘^What  do  I see?”  said  she. — “You  see 
a friend  weeping  over  his  friend.” — He  went  out  for 
the  last  time  into  the  mosque,  two  days  before  his 
death ; asked.  If  he  had  injured  any  man  ? Let  his 
own  back  bear  the  stripes.  If  he  owed  any  man  ? 
A voice  answered,  “Yes,  me  three  drachms,” bor- 
rowed on  such  an  occasion.  Mahomet  ordered  them 
to  be  paid  : “ Better  be  in  shame  now,”  said  he, 
“than  at  the  Day  of  Judgment.” — You  remember 
Kadijah,  and  the  “No,  by  Allah !”  Traits  of  that 
kind  show  us  the  genuine  man,  the  brother  of  us 
all,  brought  visible  through  twelve  centuries, — the 
veritable  Son  of  our  common  Mother. 

Withal  I like  Mahomet  for  his  total  freedom  from 
cant.  He  is  a rough  self-helping  son  of  the  wilder- 
ness ; does  not  pretend  to  be  what  he  is  not.  There 
is  no  ostentatious  pride  in  him ; but  neither  does  he 
go  much  upon  humility : he  is  there  as  he  can  be, 
in  cloak  and  shoes  of  his  own  clouting  ; speaks 
plainly  to  all  manner  of  Persian  Kings,  Greek 
Emperors,  what  it  is  they  are  bound  to  do  ; knows 
well  enough,  about  himself,  ‘ the  respect  due  unto 
thee.’  In  a life-and-death  war  with  Bedouins,  cruel 
88 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

things  could  not  fail ; but  neither  are  acts  of  mercy, 
of  noble  natural  pity  and  generosity  wanting. 
Mahomet  makes  no  apology  for  the  one,  no  boast 
of  the  other.  They  were  each  the  free  dictate  of 
his  heart ; each  called-for,  there  and  then.  Not  a 
mealy-mouthed  man  ! A candid  ferocity,  if  the  case 
call  for  it,  is  in  him ; he  does  not  mince  matters ! 
The  War  of  Tabuc  is  a thing  he  often  speaks  of : his 
men  refused,  many  of  them,  to  march  on  that  occa- 
sion; pleaded  the  heat  of  the  weather,  the  harvest, 
and  so  forth;  he  can  never  forget  that.  Your  har- 
vest ? It  lasts  for  a day.  What  will  become  of  your 
harvest  through  all  Eternity  ? Hot  weather?  Yes, 
it  was  hot ; ‘but  Hell  will  be  hotter  !’  Sometimes 
a rough  sarcasm  turns-up:  He  says  to  the  un- 
believers, Ye  shall  have  the  just  measure  of  your 
deeds  at  that  Great  Day.  They  will  be  weighed- 
out  to  you ; ye  shall  not  have  short  weight ! — Every- 
where he  fixes  the  matter  in  his  eye  ; he  sees  it : his 
heart,  now  and  then,  is  as  if  struck  dumb  by  the 
greatness  of  it.  ‘ Assuredly,’  he  says : that  word,  in 
the  Koran,  is  written-down  sometimes  as  a sentence 
by  itself : ‘ Assuredly.’ 

No  Dilettantism  in  this  Mahomet ; it  is  a business 
of  Reprobation  and  Salvation  with  him,  of  Time  and 
Eternity : he  is  in  deadly  earnest  about  it ! Dilet- 
tantism, hypothesis,  speculation,  a kind  of  amateur- 
search  for  Truth,  toying  and  coquetting  with  Truth : 
this  is  the  sorest  sin.  The  root  of  all  other  imagin- 
able sins.  It  consists  in  the  heart  and  soul  of  the 
man  never  having  been  open  to  Truth; — ‘living  in 
a vain  show.’  Such  a man  not  only  utters  and  pro- 
duces falsehoods,  but  is  himself  a falsehood.  The 
rational  moral  principle,  spark  of  the  Divinity,  is 
sunk  deep  in  him,  in  quiet  paralysis  of  life-death. 
The  very  falsehoods  of  Mahomet  are  truer  than  the 

89 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

truths  of  such  a man.  He  is  the  insincere  man: 
smooth-polished,  respectable  in  some  times  and 
places ; inoffensive,  says  nothing  harsh  to  any- 
body; most  cleanly, — just  as  carbonic  acid  is,  which 
is  death  and  poison. 

We  will  not  praise  Mahomet’s  moral  precepts  as 
always  of  the  superfinest  sort ; yet  it  can  be  said 
that  there  is  always  a tendency  to  good  in  them ; 
that  they  are  the  true  dictates  of  a heart  aiming 
towards  what  is  just  and  true.  The  sublime  forgive- 
ness of  Christianity,  turning  of  the  other  cheek 
when  the  one  has  been  smitten,  is  not  here  : you  are 
to  revenge  yourself,  but  it  is  to  be  in  measure,  not 
overmuch,  or  beyond  justice.  On  the  other  hand, 
Islam,  like  any  great  Faith,  and  insight  into  the 
essence  of  man,  is  a perfect  equaliser  of  men : the 
soul  of  one  believer  outweighs  all  earthly  kingships ; 
all  men,  according  to  Islam  too,  are  equal.  Mahomet 
insists  not  on  the  propriety  of  giving  alms,  but  on 
the  necessity  of  it:  he  marks-down  by  law  how 
much  you  are  to  give,  and  it  is  at  your  peril  if  you 
neglect.  The  tenth  part  of  a man’s  annual  income, 
whatever  that  may  be,  is  the  property  of  the  poor, 
of  those  that  are  afflicted  and  need  help.  Good  all 
this : the  natural  voice  of  humanity,  of  pity  and 
equity  dwelling  in  the  heart  of  this  wild  Son  of 
Nature  speaks  so. 

Mahomet’s  Paradise  is  sensual,  his  Hell  sensual : 
true  ; in  the  one  and  the  other  there  is  enough  that 
shocks  all  spiritual  feeling  in  us.  But  we  are  to 
recollect  that  the  Arabs  already  had  it  so ; that 
Mahomet,  in  whatever  he  changed  of  it,  softened 
and  diminished  all  this.  The  worst  sensualities,  too 
are  the  work  of  doctors,  followers  of  his,  not  his 
work.  In  the  Koran  there  is  really  very  little  said 
about  the  joys  of  Paradise;  they  are  intimated 
90 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

gather  than  insisted  on.  Nor  is  it  forgotten  that  the 
highest  joys  even  there  shall  be  spiritual;  the  pure 
Presence  of  the  Highest,  this  shall  infinitely  tran- 
scend all  other  joys.  He  says,  ‘Your  salutation 
shall  be.  Peace.’  Salam,  Have  Peace ! — the  thing  that 
all  rational  souls  long-for,  and  seek,  vainly  here 
below,  as  the  one  blessing.  ‘Ye  shall  sit  on  seats, 
facing  one  another ; all  grudges  shall  be  taken  away 
out  of  your  hearts.’  All  grudges  ! Ye  shall  love  one 
another  freely ; for  each  of  you,  in  the  eyes  of  his 
brothers,  there  will  be  Heaven  enough ! 

In  reference  to  this  of  the  sensual  Paradise  and 
Mahomet’s  sensuality,  the  sorest  chapter  of  all  for 
us, there  were  many  things  to  be  said;  which  it  is  not 
convenient  to  enter  upon  here.  Two  remarks  only 
I shall  make,  and  therewith  leave  it  to  your  candour. 
The  first  is  furnished  me  by  Goethe ; it  is  a casual 
hint  of  his  which  seems  well  worth  taking  note  of. 
In  one  of  his  Delineations,  in  Meisters  Travels  it  is, 
the  hero  comes-upon  a Society  of  men  with  very 
strange  ways,  one  of  which  was  this:  “We  require,” 
says  the  Master,  “that  each  of  our  people  shall 
restrict  himself  in  one  direction,”  shall  go  right 
against  his  desire  in  one  matter,  and  make  himself 
do  the  thing  he  does  not  wish,  “should  we  allow 
him  the  greater  latitude  on  all  other  sides.”  There 
seems  to  me  a great  justness  in  this.  Enjoying 
things  which  are  pleasant ; that  is  not  the  evil : it 
is  the  reducing  of  our  moral  self  to  slavery  by  them 
that  is.  Let  a man  assert  withal  that  he  is  king 
over  his  habitudes ; that  he  could  and  would  shake 
them  off,  on  cause  shown  . this  is  an  excellent  law. 
The  Month  Ramadhan  for  the  Moslem,  much  in 
Mahomet’s  Religion,  much  in  his  own  Life,  bears 
in  that  direction ; if  not  by  forethought,  or  clear 
purpose  of  moral  improvement  on  his  part,  then 

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HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

by  a certain  healthy  manful  instinct,  which  is  as 
good. 

But  there  is  another  thing  to  be  said  about  the 
Mahometan  Heaven  and  Hell.  This  namely,  that, 
however  gross  and  material  they  may  be,  they  are 
an  emblem  of  an  everlasting  truth,  not  always  so 
well  remembered  elsewhere.  That  gross  sensual 
Paradise  of  his;  that  horrible  flaming  Hell;  the 
great  enormous  Day  of  Judgment  he  perpetually 
insists  on : what  is  all  this  but  a rude  shadow,  in 
the  rude  Bedouin  imagination,  of  that  grand  spiritual 
Fact,  and  Beginning  of  Facts,  which  it  is  ill  for  us 
too  if  we  do  not  all  know  and  feel : the  Infinite 
Nature  of  Duty  ? That  man’s  actions  here  are  of 
infinite  moment  to  him,  and  never  die  or  end  at  all ; 
that  man,  with  his  little  life,  reaches  upwards  high 
as  Heaven,  downwards  low  as  Hell,  and  in  his 
threescore  years  of  Time  holds  an  Eternity  fear- 
fully and  wonderfully  hidden : all  this  had  burnt 
itself,  as  in  flame- characters,  into  the  wild  Arab 
soul.  As  in  flame  and  lightning,  it  stands  written 
there ; awful,  unspeakable,  ever  present  to  him. 
With  bursting  earnestness,  with  a fierce  savage  sin- 
cerity, half-articulating,  not  able  to  articulate,  he 
strives  to  speak  it,  bodies  it  forth  in  that  Heaven 
and  that  Hell.  Bodied  forth  in  what  way  you  will, 
it  is  the  first  of  all  truths.  It  is  venerable  under  all 
embodiments.  What  is  the  chief  end  of  man  here 
below  ? Mahomet  has  answered  this  question,  in  a 
way  that  might  put  some  of  us  to  shame  ! He  does 
not,  like  a Bentham,  a Paley,  take  Right  and  Wrong, 
and  calculate  the  profit  and  loss,  ultimate  pleasure 
of  the  one  and  of  the  other ; and  summing  all  up 
by  addition  and  subtraction  into  a net  result,  ask 
you.  Whether  on  the  whole  the  Right  does  not  pre- 
ponderate considerably  ? No  ; it  is  not  better  to  do 
92 


THE  HERO  AS  PROPHET 

the  one  than  the  other ; the  one  is  to  the  other  as 
life  is  to  death, — as  Heaven  is  to  Hell.  The  one 
must  in  nowise  be  done,  the  other  in  nowise  left 
undone.  You  shall  not  measure  them ; they  are  in- 
commensurable : the  one  is  death  eternal  to  a man, 
the  other  is  life  eternal.  Benthamee  Utility,  virtue 
by  Profit  and  Loss  ; reducing  this  God’s- world  to  a 
dead  brute  Steam-engine,  the  infinite  celestial  Soul 
of  Man  to  a kind  of  Hay-balance  for  weighing  hay 
and  thistles  on,  pleasures  and  pains  on : — If  you  ask 
me  which  gives,  Mahomet  or  they,  the  beggarlier 
and  falser  view  of  Man  and  his  Destinies  in  this 

Universe,  I will  answer.  It  is  not  Mahomet ! 

On  the  whole,  we  will  repeat  that  this  Religion  of 
Mahomet’s  is  a kind  of  Christianity ; has  a genuine 
element  of  what  is  spiritually  highest  looking  through 
it,  not  to  be  hidden  by  all  its  imperfections.  The 
Scandinavian  God  Wish,  the  god  of  all  rude  men, — 
this  has  been  enlarged  into  a Heaven  by  Mahomet ; 
but  a Heaven  symbolical  of  sacred  Duty,  and  to  be 
earned  by  faith  and  well-doing,  by  valiant  action, 
and  a divine  patience  which  is  still  more  valiant. 
It  is  Scandinavian  Paganism,  and  a truly  celestial 
element  superadded  to  that.  Gall  it  not  false  ; look 
not  at  the  falsehood  of  it,  look  at  the  truth  of  it. 
For  these  twelve  centuries,  it  has  been  the  religion 
and  life-guidance  of  the  fifth  part  of  the  whole 
kindred  of  Mankind.  Above  all  things,  it  has  been 
a religion  heartily  believed.  These  Arabs  believe 
their  religion,  and  try  to  live  by  it ! No  Christians, 
since  the  early  ages,  or  only  perhaps  the  English 
Puritans  in  modern  times,  have  ever  stood  by  their 
Faith  as  the  Moslem  do  by  theirs, — believing  it 
wholly,  fronting  Time  with  it,  and  Eternity  with  it. 
This  night  the  watchman  on  the  streets  of  Cairo 
when  he  cries,  “ Who  goes  ? ” will  hear  from  the 

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HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

passenger, along  with  his  answer, ‘‘There  is  no  God 
but  God.”  Allah  akbar,  Islam^  sounds  through  the 
souls,  and  whole  daily  existence,  of  these  dusky 
millions.  Zealous  missionaries  preach  it  abroad 
among  Malays,  black  Papuans,  brutal  Idolaters  ; — 
displacing  what  is  worse,  nothing  that  is  better  or 
good. 

/ To  the  Arab  Nation  It  was  as  a birth  from  dark- 
ness Into  light ; Arabia  first  became  alive  by  means 
of  it.  A poor  shepherd  people,  roaming  unnoticed 
in  Its  deserts  since  the  creation  of  the  world : a Hero- 
Prophet  was  sent  down  to  them  with  a word  they 
could  believe : see,  the  unnoticed  becomes  world- 
notable,  the  small  has  grown  world-great ; within 
one  century  afterwards,  Arabia  is  at  Grenada  on 
this  hand,  at  Delhi  on  that ; — glancing  in  valour  and 
splendour  and  the  light  of  genius,  Arabia  shines 
through  long  ages  over  a great  section  of  the  world. 
Belief  is  great,  life-giving.  The  history  of  a Nation 
becomes  fruitful,  soul-elevating,  great,  so  soon  as  It 
believes.  These  Arabs,  the  man  Mahomet,  and  that 
one  century, — is  it  not  as  if  a spark  had  fallen,  one 
spark,  on  a world  of  what  seemed  black  unnotlce- 
able  sand ; but  lo,  the  sand  proves  explosive  powder, 
blazes  heaven-high  from  Delhi  to  Grenada  ! I said, 
the  Great  Man  was  always  as  lightning  out  of 
Heaven  ; the  rest  of  men  waited  for  him  like  fuel, 
and  then  they  too  would  flame.  // 


94 


LECTURE  THREE 

THE  HERO  AS  POET. 
DANTE;  SHAKSPEARE 

Tuesday,  12th  May,  1840 


LECTURE  III.  THE  HERO 
AS  POET 

The  Hero  as  Divinity,  the  Hero  as  Pro- 
phet, are  productions  of  old  ages ; not 
to  be  repeated  In  the  new.  They  pre- 
suppose a certain  rudeness  of  concep- 
tion, which  the  progress  of  mere  scientific  know- 
ledge puts  an  end  to.  There  needs  to  be,  as  it 
were,  a world  vacant,  or  almost  vacant  of  scientific 
forms,  If  men  in  their  loving  wonder  are  to  fancy 
their  fellow- man  either  a god  or  one  speaking  with 
the  voice  of  a god.  Divinity  and  Prophet  are  past. 
We  are  now  to  see  our  Hero  in  the  less  ambitious, 
but  also  less  questionable,  character  of  Poet;  a 
character  which  does  not  pass.  The  Poet  is  a heroic 
figure  belonging  to  all  ages ; whom  all  ages  possess, 
when  once  he  is  produced,  whom  the  newest  age 
as  the  oldest  may  produce; — and  will  produce, 
always  when  Nature  pleases.  Let  Nature  send  a 
Hero-soul ; in  no  age  is  it  other  than  possible  that 
he  may  be  shaped  into  a Poet. 

Hero,  Prophet,  Poet, — many  different  names,  in 
different  times  and  places,  do  we  give  to  Great 
Men;  according  to  varieties  we  note  in  them, 
according  to  the  sphere  in  which  they  have  dis- 
played themselves ! We  might  give  many  more 
names,  on  this  same  principle.  I will  remark  again, 
however,  as  a fact  not  unimportant  to  be  under- 
stood, that  the  diflFerent  sphere  constitutes  the  grand 
origin  of  such  distinction ; that  the  Hero  can  be 
Poet,  Prophet,  King,  Priest  or  what  you  will,  ac- 
cording to  the  kind  of  world  he  finds  himself  born 
into.  I confess,  I have  no  notion  of  a truly  great 
man  that  could  not  be  all  sorts  of  men.  The  Poet 
who  could  merely  sit  on  a chair,  and  compose 
stanzas,  would  never  make  a stanza  worth  much. 

g 97 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

He  could  not  sing  the  Heroic  warrior,  unless  he 
himself  were  at  least  a Heroic  warrior  too.  I fancy 
there  is  in  him  the  Politician,  the  Thinker,  Legis- 
lator, Philosopher; — in  one  or  the  other  degree, 
he  could  have  been,  he  is  all  these.  So  too  I can- 
not understand  how  a Mirabeau,  with  that  great 
glowing  heart,  with  the  fire  that  was  in  it,  with 
the  bursting  tears  that  were  in  it,  could  not  have 
written  verses,  tragedies,  poems,  and  touched  all 
hearts  in  that  way,  had  his  course  of  life  and  edu- 
cation led  him  thitherward.  The  grand  funda- 
mental character  is  that  of  Great  Man ; that  the 
man  be  great.  Napoleon  has  words  in  him  which 
are  like  Austerlitz  Battles.  Louis  Fourteenth’s 
Marshals  are  a kind  of  poetical  men  withal ; the 
things  Turenne  says  are  full  of  sagacity  and  geni- 
ality, like  sayings  of  Samuel  Johnson.  The  great 
heart,  the  clear  deep-seeing  eye : there  it  lies ; no 
man  whatever,  in  what  province  soever,  can  prosper 
at  all  without  these.  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio  did 
diplomatic  messages,  it  seems,  quite  well : one  can 
easily  believe  it;  they  had  done  things  a little 
harder  than  these ! Burns,  a gifted  song-writer, 
might  have  made  a still  better  Mirabeau.  Shak- 
speare, — one  knows  not  what  he  could  not  have 
made,  in  the  supreme  degree. 

True,  there  are  aptitudes  of  Nature  too.  Nature 
does  not  ma*ke  all  great  men,  more  than  all  other 
men,  in  the  self-same  mould.  Varieties  of  aptitude 
doubtless ; but  infinitely  more  of  circumstance ; 
and  far  oftenest  it  is  the  latter  only  that  are  looked 
to.  But  it  is  as  with  common  men  in  the  learning 
of  trades.  You  take  any  man,  as  yet  a vague  capa- 
bility of  a man,  who  could  be  any  kind  of  crafts- 
man ; and  make  him  into  a smith,  a carpenter,  a 
mason : he  is  then  and  thenceforth  that  and  nothing 
98 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

else.  And  if,  as  Addison  complains,  you  sometimes 
see  a street-porter  staggering  under  his  load  on 
spindle-shanks,  and  near  at  hand  a tailor  with  the 
frame  of  a Samson  handling  a bit  of  cloth  and 
small  Whitechapel  needle, — it  cannot  be  considered 
that  aptitude  of  Nature  alone  has  been  consulted 
here  either ! — The  Great  Man  also,  to  what  shall 
he  be  bound  apprentice  ? Given  your  Hero,  is  he 
to  become  Conqueror,  King,  Philosopher,  Poet? 
It  is  an  inexplicably  complex  controversial-calcu- 
lation between  the  world  and  him ! He  will  read 
the  world  and  its  laws;  the  world  with  its  laws 
will  be  there  to  be  read.  What  the  world,  on  this 
matter,  shall  permit  and  bid  is,  as  we  said,  the 
most  important  fact  about  the  world. — 

Poet  and  Prophet  differ  greatly  in  our  loose 
modern  notions  of  them.  In  some  old  languages, 
again,  the  titles  are  synonymous ; Vates  means  both 
Prophet  and  Poet : and  indeed  at  all  times,  Pro- 
phet and  Poet,  well  understood,  have  much  kindred 
of  meaning.  Fundamentally  indeed  they  are  still 
the  same ; in  this  most  important  respect  especially. 
That  they  have  penetrated  both  of  them  into  the 
sacred  mystery  of  the  Universe ; what  Goethe  calls 
‘the  open  secret.’  “Which  is  the  great  secret?” 
asks  one. — “The  open  secret,” — open  to  all,  seen 
by  almost  none  ! That  divine  mystery,  which  lies 
everywhere  in  all  Beings,  ‘ the  Divine  Idea  of  the 
World,  that  which  lies  at  the  bottom  of  Appear- 
ance,’ as  Fichte  styles  it ; of  which  all  Appearance, 
from  the  starry  sky  to  the  grass  of  the  field,  but 
especially  the  Appearance  of  Man  and  his  work, 
is  but  the  vesture,  the  embodiment  that  renders  it 
visible.  This  divine  mystery  is  in  all  times  and  in 
all  places ; veritably  is.  In  most  times  and  places 

99 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

it  is  greatly  overlooked;  and  the  Universe,  de- 
finable always  in  one  or  the  other  dialect,  as  the 
realised  Thought  of  God,  is  considered  a trivial, 
inert,  commonplace  matter, — as  if,  says  the  Satirist, 
it  were  a dead  thing,  which  some  upholsterer  had 
put  together ! It  could  do  no  good,  at  present,  to 
speak  much  about  this ; but  it  is  a pity  for  every 
one  of  us  if  we  do  not  know  it,  live  ever  in  the 
knowledge  of  it.  Really  a most  mournful  pity  ; — a 
failure  to  live  at  all,  if  we  live  otherwise ! 

But  now,  I say,  whoever  may  forget  this  divine 
mystery,  the  Vates^  whether  Prophet  or  Poet,  has 
penetrated  into  it;  is  a man  sent  hither  to  make  it 
more  impressively  known  to  us.  That  always  is  his 
message ; he  is  to  reveal  that  to  us, — that  sacred 
mystery  which  he  more  than  others  lives  ever 
present  with.  While  others  forget  it,  he  knows  it ; — I 
might  say,  he  has  been  driven  to  know  it ; without 
consent  asked  of  him,  he  finds  himself  living  in  it, 
bound  to  live  in  it.  Once  more,  here  is  no  Hearsay, 
but  a direct  Insight  and  Belief;  this  man  too  could 
not  help  being  a sincere  man  ! Whosoever  may  live 
in  the  shows  of  things,  it  is  for  him  a necessity  of 
nature  to  live  in  the  very  fact  of  things.  A man, 
once  more,  in  earnest  with  the  Universe,  though  all 
others  were  but  toying  with  it.  He  is  a Vates,  first 
of  all,  in  virtue  of  being  sincere.  So  far  Poet  and 
Prophet,  participators  in  the  ‘open  secret,’ are  one. 

With  respect  to  their  distinction  again  : The  Vates 
Prophet,  we  might  say,  has  seized  that  sacred 
mystery  rather  on  the  moral  side,  as  Good  and 
Evil,  Duty  and  Prohibition  ; the  Vates  Poet  on 
what  the  Germans  call  the  aesthetic  side,  as  Beau- 
tiful, and  the  like.  The  one  we  may  call  a revealer 
of  what  we  are  to  do,  the  other  of  what  we  are  to 
love.  But  indeed  these  two  provinces  run  into  one 
100 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

another,  and  cannot  be  disjoined.  The  Prophet  too 
has  his  eye  on  what  we  are  to  love : how  else  shall 
he  know  what  it  is  we  are  to  do?  The  highest 
Voice  ever  heard  on  this  earth  said  withal,  “ Con- 
sider the  lilies  of  the  field ; they  toil  not,  neither  do 
they  spin : yet  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  not 
arrayed  like  one  of  these.’’  A glance,  that,  into  the 
deepest  deep  of  Beauty.  ‘ The  lilies  of  the  field,’ — 
dressed  finer  than  earthly  princes,  springing-up 
there  in  the  humble  furrow-field ; a beautiful  eye 
looking-out  on  you,  from  the  great  inner  Sea  of 
Beauty  ! How  could  the  rude  Earth  make  these,  if 
her  Essence,  rugged  as  she  looks  and  is,  were  not 
inwardly  Beauty?  In  this  point  of  view,  too,  a 
saying  of  Goethe’s,  which  has  staggered  several, 
may  have  meaning  : ‘ The  Beautiful,’  he  intimates, 
‘ is  higher  than  the  Good;  the  Beautiful  includes  in 
it  the  Good.’  The  true  Beautiful ; which  however,  I 
have  said  somewhere,  ‘differs  from  the  false,  as 
Heaven  does  from  Vauxhall!’  So  much  for  the 
distinction  and  identity  of  Poet  and  Prophet. — 

In  ancient  and  also  in  modern  periods,  we  find  a 
few  Poets  who  are  accounted  perfect ; whom  it  were 
a kind  of  treason  to  find  fault  with.  This  is  note- 
worthy ; this  is  right : yet  in  strictness  it  is  only  an 
illusion.  At  bottom,  clearly  enough,  there  is  no 
perfect  Poet ! A vein  of  Poetry  exists  in  the  hearts 
of  all  men ; no  man  is  made  altogether  of  Poetry. 
We  are  all  poets  when  we  read  a poem  well.  The 
‘ imagination  that  shudders  at  the  Hell  of  Dante,’ 
is  not  that  the  same  faculty,  weaker  in  degree,  as 
Dante’s  own  ? No  one  but  Shakspeare  can  em- 
body, out  of  Saxo  Grammaticus,  the  story  of  Hamlet 
as  Shakspeare  did  : but  every  one  models  some 
kind  of  story  out  of  it ; every  one  embodies  it  better 
or  worse.  We  need  not  spend  time  in  defining. 

101 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Where  there  is  no  specific  difference,  as  between 
round  and  square,  all  definition  must  be  more  or 
less  arbitrary,  A man  that  has  so  much  more  of  the 
poetic  element  developed  in  him  as  to  have  become 
noticeable,  will  be  called  Poet  by  his  neighbours. 
World-Poets  too,  those  whom  we  are  to  take  for 
perfect  Poets,  are  settled  by  critics  in  the  same  way. 
One  who  rises  so  far  above  the  general  level  of 
Poets  will,  to  such  and  such  critics,  seem  a Univer- 
sal Poet ; as  he  ought  to  do.  And  yet  it  is,  and 
must  be,  an  arbitrary  distinction.  All  Poets,  all  men, 
have  some  touches  of  the  Universal;  no  man  is 
wholly  made  of  that.  Most  Poets  are  very  soon  for- 
gotten : but  not  the  noblest  Shakspeare  or  Homer 
of  them  can  be  remembered /or^v^r; — a day  comes 
when  he  too  is  not ! 

Nevertheless,  you  will  say,  there  must  be  a dif- 
ference between  true  Poetry  and  true  Speech  not 
poetical : what  is  the  difference  ? On  this  point 
many  things  have  been  written,  especially  by  late 
German  Critics,  some  of  which  are  not  very  intel- 
ligible at  first.  They  say,  for  example,  that  the 
Poet  has  an  infinitude  in  him  ; communicates  an 
Unendlichkeit,  a certain  character  of  ‘ infinitude  ’ to 
whatsoever  he  delineates.  This,  though  not  very 
precise,  yet  on  so  vague  a matter  is  worth  re- 
membering : if  well  meditated,  some  meaning  will 
gradually  be  found  in  it.  For  my  own  part,  I find 
considerable  meaning  in  the  old  vulgar  distinction 
of  Poetry  being  metrical,  having  music  in  it,  being 
a Song.  Truly,  if  pressed  to  give  a definition,  one 
might  say  this  as  soon  as  anything  else ; If  your 
delineation  be  authentically  musical,  musical  not  in 
word  only,  but  in  heart  and  substance,  in  all  the 
thoughts  and  utterances  of  it,  in  the  whole  concep- 
tion of  it,  then  it  will  be  poetical ; if  not,  not. — 
102 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

Musical : how  much  lies  In  that ! A musical  thought 
is  one  spoken  by  a mind  that  has  penetrated  into 
the  inmost  heart  of  the  thing  ; detected  the  inmost 
mystery  of  it,  namely  the  melody  that  lies  hidden  in 
it ; the  inward  harmony  of  coherence  which  is  its 
soul,  whereby  it  exists,  and  has  a right  to  be,  here 
In  this  world.  All  inmost  things,  we  may  say,  are 
melodious;  naturally  utter  themselves  in  Song. 
The  meaning  of  Song  goes  deep.  Who  is  there  that, 
In  logical  words,  can  express  the  effect  music  has  on 
us?  A kind  of  inarticulate  unfathomable  speech, 
which  leads  us  to  the  edge  of  the  Infinite,  and  lets 
us  for  moments  gaze  into  that ! 

Nay  all  speech,  even  the  commonest  speech,  has 
something  of  song  in  it : not  a parish  in  the  world 
but  has  its  parish-accent ; — the  rhythm  or  tune  to 
which  the  people  there  sing  what  they  have  to  say  ! 
Accent  is  a kind  of  chanting ; all  men  have  accent 
of  their  own, — though  they  only  notice  that  of  others. 
Observe  too  how  all  passionate  language  does  of 
itself  become  musical, — with  a finer  music  than  the 
mere  accent ; the  speech  of  a man  even  in  zealous 
anger  becomes  a chant,  a song.  All  deep  things  are 
Song.  It  seems  somehow  the  very  central  essence 
of  us,  Song ; as  if  all  the  rest  were  but  wrappages 
and  hulls ! The  primal  element  of  us ; of  us,  and  of 
all  things.  The  Greeks  fabled  of  Sphere-Harmonies : 
it  was  the  feeling  they  had  of  the  inner  structure  of 
Nature ; that  the  soul  of  all  her  voices  and  utter- 
ances was  perfect  music.  Poetry,  therefore,  we  will 
call  musical  Thought.  The  Poet  Is  he  who  thinks  in 
that  manner.  At  bottom.  It  turns  still  on  power  of 
Intellect ; It  is  a man’s  sincerity  and  depth  of  vision 
that  makes  him  a Poet.  See  deep  enough,  and  you 
see  musically ; the  heart  of  Nature  every  where 

music,  if  you  can  only  reach  it. 


103 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

The  Vates  Poet,  with  his  melodious  Apocalypse  of 
Nature,  seems  to  hold  a poor  rank  among  us,  In 
comparison  with  the  Vates  Prophet ; his  function,  and 
our  esteem  of  him  for  his  function,  alike  slight.  The 
Hero  taken  as  Divinity ; the  Hero  taken  as  Prophet; 
then  next  the  Hero  taken  only  as  Poet : does  it  not 
look  as  if  our  estimate  of  the  Great  Man,  epoch  after 
epoch,  were  continually  diminishing?  We  take  him 
first  for  a god,  then  for  one  god-inspired ; and  now 
In  the  next  stage  of  it,  his  most  miraculous  word 
gains  from  us  only  the  recognition  that  he  is  a Poet, 
beautiful  verse- maker,  man  of  genius,  or  such  like  ! 
— It  looks  so  ; but  I persuade  myself  that  intrinsi- 
cally it  is  not  so.  If  we  consider  well,  it  will  per- 
haps appear  that  in  man  still  there  is  the  same  alto- 
gether peculiar  admiration  for  the  Heroic  Gift,  by 
what  name  soever  called,  that  there  at  any  time  was. 
I should  say,  if  we  do  not  now  reckon  a Great  Man 
literally  divine,  it  is  that  our  notions  of  God,  of  the 
supreme  unattainable  Fountain  of  Splendour,  Wis- 
dom and  Heroism,  are  ever  rising  higher;  not  alto- 
gether that  our  reverence  for  these  qualities,  as 
manifested  in  our  like,  is  getting  lower.  This  is 
worth  taking  thought  of.  Sceptical  Dilettantism, 
the  curse  of  these  ages,  a curse  which  will  not  last 
forever,  does  indeed  in  this  the  highest  province  of 
human  things,  as  in  all  provinces,  make  sad  work ; 
and  our  reverence  for  great  men,  all  crippled, 
blinded,  paralytic  as  it  is,  comes-out  in  poor  plight, 
hardly  recognisable.  Men  worship  the  shows  of 
great  men ; the  most  disbelieve  that  there  is  any 
reality  of  great  men  to  worship.  The  dreariest, 
fatallest  faith  ; believing  which,  one  would  literally 
despair  of  human  things.  Nevertheless  look,  for 
example,  at  Napoleon  ! A Corsican  lieutenant  of 
artillery;  that  is  the  show  of  him:  yet  is  he  not 
104 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

obeyed,  worshiped  after  his  sort,  as  all  the  TIaraed 
and  Diademed  of  the  world  put  together  could  not 
be?  High  Duchesses,  and  ostlers  of  inns,  gather 
round  the  Scottish  rustic.  Burns ; — a strange  feeling 
dwelling  in  each  that  they  never  heard  a man  like 
this ; that,  on  the  whole,  this  is  the  man ! In  the 
secret  heart  of  these  people  it  still  dimly  reveals 
itself,  though  there  is  no  accredited  way  of  uttering 
it  at  present,  that  this  rustic,  with  his  black  brows 
and  flashing  sun-eyes,  and  strange  words  moving 
laughter  and  tears,  is  of  a dignity  far  beyond  all 
others,  incommensurable  with  all  others.  Do  not  we 
feel  it  so  ? But  now,  were  Dilettantism,  Scepticism, 
Triviality,  and  all  that  sorrowful  brood,  cast-out  of 
us, — as,  by  God’s  blessing,  they  shall  one  day  be ; 
were  faith  in  the  shows  of  things  entirely  swept-out, 
replaced  by  clear  faith  in  the  things^  so  that  a man 
acted  on  the  impulse  of  that  only,  and  counted 
the  other  non- extant ; what  a new  livelier  feeling 
towards  this  Burns  were  it ! 

Nay  here  in  these  ages,  such  as  they  are,  have  we 
not  two  mere  Poets,  if  not  deified,  yet  we  may  say 
beatified  ? Shakspeare  and  Dante  are  Saints  of 
Poetry;  really,  if  we  will  think  of  it,  canonised,  so 
that  it  is  impiety  to  meddle  with  them.  The  unguided 
instinct  of  the  world,  working  across  all  these 
perverse  impediments,  has  arrived  at  such  result. 
Dante  and  Shakspeare  are  a peculiar  Two.  They 
dwell  apart,  in  a kind  of  royal  solitude ; none  equal, 
none  second  to  them : in  the  general  feeling  of  the 
world,  a certain  transcendentalism,  a glory  as  of 
complete  perfection,  invests  these  two.  They  are 
canonised,  though  no  Pope  or  Cardinals  took  hand 
in  doing  it ! Such,  in  spite  of  every  perverting  in- 
fluence, in  the  most  unheroic  times,  is  still  our  inde- 
structible reverence  for  heroism. — We  will  look  a 

105 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

little  at  these  Two,  the  Poet  Dante  and  the  Poet 
Shakspeare:  what  little  it  is  permitted  us  to  say 
here  of  the  Hero  as  Poet  will  most  fitly  arrange 
itself  in  that  fashion. 

Many  volumes  have  been  written  by  way  of  com- 
mentary on  Dante  and  his  Book ; yet,  on  the  whole, 
with  no  great  result.  His  Biography  is,  as  it  were, 
irrecoverably  lost  for  us.  An  unimportant,  wander- 
ing, sorrowstricken  man,  not  much  note  was  taken 
of  him  while  he  lived ; and  the  most  of  that  has 
vanished,  in  the  long  space  that  now  intervenes.  It 
is  five  centuries  since  he  ceased  writing  and  living 
here.  After  all  commentaries,  the  Book  itself  is 
mainly  what  we  know  of  him.  The  Book ; — and 
one  might  add  that  Portrait  commonly  attributed 
to  Giotto,  which,  looking  on  it,  you  cannot  help 
inclining  to  think  genuine,  whoever  did  it.  To  me  it 
is  a most  touching  face ; perhaps  of  all  faces  that  I 
know,  the  most  so.  Lonely  there,  painted  as  on 
vacancy,  with  the  simple  laurel  wound  round  it ; 
the  deathless  sorrow  and  pain,  the  known  victory 
which  is  also  deathless ; — significant  of  the  whole 
history  of  Dante  ! I think  it  is  the  mournfullest  face 
that  ever  was  painted  from  reality ; an  altogether 
tragic,  heart-affecting  face.  There  is  in  it,  as  founda- 
tion of  it,  the  softness,  tenderness,  gentle  affection 
as  of  a child ; but  all  this  is  as  if  congealed  into  sharp 
contradiction, into  abnegation, isolation,  proud  hope- 
less pain.  A soft  ethereal  soul  looking-out  so  stern, 
implacable,  grim-trenchant,  as  from  imprisonment 
of  thick- ribbed  ice  ! Withal  it  is  a silent  pain  too,  a 
silent  scornful  one  : the  lip  is  curled  in  a kind  of 
godlike  disdain  of  the  thing  that  is  eating-out  his 
heart, — as  if  it  were  withal  a mean  insignificant 
thing,  as  if  he  whom  it  had  power  to  torture  and 
strangle  were  greater  than  it.  The  face  of  one 
106 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

wholly  in  protest,  and  lifelong  unsurrendering  battle, 
against  the  world.  Affection  all  converted  into  in- 
dignation: an  implacable  indignation ; slow,  equable, 
silent,  like  that  of  a god  ! The  eye  too,  it  looks-out 
as  in  a kind  of  surprise,  a kind  of  inquiry.  Why  the 
world  was  of  such  a sort  ? This  is  Dante : so  he 
looks,  this  ‘ voice  of  ten  silent  centuries,’  and  sings 
us  ‘ his  mystic  unfathomable  song.’ 

The  little  that  we  know  of  Dante’s  Life  corre- 
sponds well  enough  with  this  Portrait  and  this  Book. 
He  was  born  at  Florence,  in  the  upper  class  of 
society,  in  the  year  1265.  His  education  was  the 
best  then  going  ; much  school-divinity,  Aristotelean 
logic,  some  Latin  classics, — no  inconsiderable  in- 
sight into  certain  provinces  of  things : and  Dante, 
with  his  earnest  intelligent  nature,  we  need  not 
doubt,  learned  better  than  most  all  that  was  learn- 
able.  He  has  a clear  cultivated  understanding,  and 
of  great  subtlety;  this  best  fruit  of  education  he 
had  contrived  to  realise  from  these  scholastics.  He 
knows  accurately  and  well  what  lies  close  to  him ; 
but,  in  such  a time,  without  printed  books  or  free 
intercourse,  he  could  not  know  well  what  was 
distant:  the  small  clear  light,  most  luminous  for 
what  is  near,  breaks  itself  into  singular  chiaroscuro 
striking  on  what  is  far  off.  This  was  Dante’s  learn- 
ing from  the  schools.  In  life,  he  had  gone  through 
the  usual  destinies ; been  twice  out  campaigning  as 
a soldier  for  the  Florentine  State,  been  on  embassy ; 
had  in  his  thirty-fifth  year,  by  natural  gradation  of 
talent  and  service,  become  one  of  the  Chief  Magis- 
trates of  Florence.  He  had  met  in  boyhood  a certain 
Beatrice  Portinari,  a beautiful  little  girl  of  his  own 
age  and  rank,  and  grown-up  thenceforth  in  partial 
sight  of  her,  in  some  distant  intercourse  with  her. 
All  readers  know  his  graceful  affecting  account  of 

107 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

this ; and  then  of  their  being  parted ; of  her  being 
wedded  to  another,  and  of  her  death  soon  after. 
She  makes  a great  figure  in  Dante’s  Poem  ; seems 
to  have  made  a great  figure  in  his  life.  Of  all  beings 
it  might  seem  as  if  she,  held  apart  from  him,  far 
apart  at  last  in  the  dim  Eternity,  were  the  only  one 
he  had  ever  with  his  whole  strength  of  affection 
loved.  She  died  ’ Dante  himself  was  wedded  ; but 
it  seems  not  happily,  far  from  happily.  I fancy,  the 
rigorous  earnest  man,  with  his  keen  excitabilities, 
was  not  altogether  easy  to  make  happy. 

We  will  not  complain  of  Dante’s  miseries : had 
all  gone  right  with  him  as  he  wished  it,  he  might 
have  been  Prior,  Podesta,  or  whatsoever  they  call 
it,  of  Florence,  well  accepted  among  neighbours, — 
and  the  world  had  wanted  one  of  the  most  notable 
words  ever  spoken  or  sung.  Florence  would  have 
had  another  prosperous  Lord  Mayor ; and  the  ten 
dumb  centuries  continued  voiceless,  and  the  ten 
other  listening  centuries  (for  there  will  be  ten  of 
them  and  more)  had  no  Divina  Commedia  to  hear! 
We  will  complain  of  nothing.  A nobler  destiny 
was  appointed  for  this  Dante ; and  he,  struggling 
like  a man  led  towards  death  and  crucifixion,  could 
not  help  fulfilling  it.  Give  him  the  choice  of  his 
happiness  ! He  knew  not,  more  than  we  do,  what 
was  really  happy,  what  was  really  miserable. 

In  Dante’s  Priorship,  the  Guelf  - Ghibelline, 
Bianchi-Neri,  or  some  other  confused  disturbances 
rose  to  such  a height,  that  Dante,  whose  party  had 
seemed  the  stronger,  was  with  his  friends  cast  un- 
expectedly forth  into  banishment ; doomed  thence- 
forth to  a life  of  woe  and  wandering.  His  property 
was  all  confiscated  and  more  ; he  had  the  fiercest 
feeling  that  it  was  entirely  unjust,  nefarious  in  the 
sight  of  God  and  man.  He  tried  what  was  in  him 
108 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

to  get  reinstated  ; tried  even  by  warlike  surprisal, 
with  arms  in  his  hand : but  it  would  not  do ; bad 
only  had  become  worse.  There  is  a record,  I be- 
lieve, still  extant  in  the  Florence  Archives,  dooming 
this  Dante,  wheresoever  caught,  to  be  burnt  alive. 
Burnt  alive ; so  it  stands,  they  say : a very  curious 
civic  document.  Another  curious  document,  some 
considerable  number  of  years  later,  is  a Letter  of 
Dante’s  to  the  Florentine  Magistrates,  written  in 
answer  to  a milder  proposal  of  theirs,  that  he  should 
return  on  condition  of  apologising  and  paying  a fine. 
He  answers,  with  fixed  stern  pride ; “ If  I cannot 
return  without  calling  myself  guilty,  I will  never 
return,  nunquatn  revertarJ^ 

F or  Dante  there  was  now  no  home  in  this  world. 
He  wandered  from  patron  to  patron,  from  place  to 
place ; proving,  in  his  own  bitter  words,  ‘ How  hard 
is  the  path.  Come  e duro  called  The  wretched  are  not 
cheerful  company.  Dante,  poor  and  banished,  with 
his  proud  earnest  nature,  with  his  moody  humours, 
was  not  a man  to  conciliate  men.  Petrarch  reports 
of  him  that  being  at  Can  della  Scala’s  court,  and 
blamed  one  day  for  his  gloom  and  taciturnity,  he 
answered  in  no  courtier- like  way.  Della  Scala  stood 
among  his  courtiers,  with  mimes  and  buffoons  (nebu- 
tones  ac  histriones)  making  him  heartily  merry ; when 
turning  to  Dante,  he  said : “ Is  it  not  strange,  now, 
that  this  poor  fool  should  make  himself  so  entertain- 
ing ; while  you,  a wise  man,  sit  there  day  after  day, 
and  have  nothing  to  amuse  us  with  at  all  ? ” Dante 
answered  bitterly : “ No,  not  strange ; your  High- 
ness is  to  recollect  the  Proverb,  Like  to  Like;  ” — given 
the  amuser,  the  amusee  must  also  be  given  ! Such  a 
man,  with  his  proud  silent  ways,  with  his  sarcasms 
and  sorrows,  was  not  made  to  succeed  at  court.  By 
degrees,  it  came  to  be  evident  to  him  that  he  had  no 

109 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

longer  any  resting-place,  or  hope  of  benefit,  m this 
earth.  The  earthly  world  had  cast  him  forth,  to 
wander,  wander ; no  living  heart  to  love  him  now ; 
for  his  sore  miseries  there  was  no  solace  here. 

The  deeper  naturally  would  the  Eternal  World 
impress  itself  on  him ; that  awful  reality  over  which, 
after  all,  this  Time-world,  with  its  Florences  and 
banishments,  only  flutters  as  an  unreal  shadow. 
Florence  thou  shalt  never  see : but  Hell  and  Pur- 
gatory and  Heaven  thou  shalt  surely  see  ! What  is 
Florence,  Gan  della  Scala,  and  the  World  and  Life 
altogether?  Eternity:  thither,  of  a truth,  not  else- 
whither, art  thou  and  all  things  bound  ! The  great 
soul  of  Dante,  homeless  on  earth,  made  its  home 
more  and  more  in  that  awful  other  world.  Naturally 
his  thoughts  brooded  on  that,  as  on  the  one  fact  im- 
portant for  him.  Bodied  or  bodiless,  it  is  the  one  fact 
important  for  all  men  : — but  to  Dante,  in  that  age,  it 
was  bodied  in  fixed  certainty  of  scientific  shape ; he 
no  more  doubted  of  that  Malebolge  Pool,  that  it  all  lay 
there  with  its  gloomy  circles,  with  its  alti  guai,  and 
that  he  himself  should  see  it,  than  we  doubt  that 
we  should  see  Constantinople  if  we  went  thither. 
Dante’s  heart,  long  filled  with  this,  brooding  over  it 
in  speechless  thought  and  awe,  bursts-forth  at  length 
into  ‘ mystic  unfathomable  song  ’ ; and  this  his  Divine 
Comedy,  the  most  remarkable  of  all  modern  Books, 
is  the  result.  It  must  have  been  a great  solacement 
to  Dante,  and  was,  as  we  can  see,  a proud  thought 
for  him  at  times.  That  he,  here  in  exile,  could  do  this 
work ; that  no  Florence,  nor  no  man  or  men,  could 
hinder  him  from  doing  it,  or  even  much  help  him  in 
doing  it.  He  knew  too,  partly,  that  it  was  great ; 
the  greatest  a man  could  do.  ‘ If  thou  follow  thy  star, 
Se  tu  segui  tua  Stella,^ — so  could  the  Hero,  in  his  for- 
sakenness, in  his  extreme  need,  still  say  to  himself : 
110 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

‘‘  Follow  thou  thy  star,  thou  shalt  not  fail  of  aglorious 
haven ! ” The  labour  of  writing,  we  find,  and  indeed 
could  knowotherwise,  was  great  and  painful  for  him ; 
he  says.  This  Book  ‘ which  has  made  me  lean  for 
many  years/  Ah  yes,  it  was  won,  all  of  it,  with  pain 
and  sore  toil, — not  in  sport,  but  in  grim  earnest.  His 
Book,  as  indeed  most  good  Books  are,  has  been 
written,  in  many  senses,  with  his  heart’s  blood.  It 
is  his  whole  history  this  Book.  He  died  after  finish- 
ing it ; not  yet  very  old,  at  the  age  of  fifty-six ; — 
broken-hearted  rather,  as  is  said.  He  lies  buried  in 
his  death- city  Ravenna : Hie  claudor  Dantes  patriis 
extorris  ab  oris.  The  Florentines  begged  back  his 
body,  in  a century  after  ; the  Ravenna  people  would 
not  give  it.  “ Here  am  I Dante  laid,  shut-out  from 
my  native  shores.” 

I said,  Dante’s  Poem  was  a Song ; it  is  Tieck  who 
calls  it  ‘ a mystic  unfathomable  Song  ; ’ and  such  is 
literally  the  character  of  it.  Coleridge  remarks  very 
pertinently  somewhere,  that  wherever  you  find  a 
sentence  musically  worded,  of  true  rhythm  and 
melody  in  the  words,  there  is  something  deep  and 
good  in  the  meaning  too.  For  body  and  soul,  word 
and  idea,  go  strangely  together  here  as  everywhere. 
Song  : we  said  before,  it  was  the  Heroic  of  Speech  ! 
All  old  Poems,  Homer’s  and  the  rest,  are  authenti- 
cally Songs.  I would  say,  in  strictness,  that  all  right 
Poems  are  ; that  whatsoever  is  not  sung  is  properly 
no  Poem,  but  a piece  of  Prose  cramped  into  jing- 
ling lines, — to  the  great  injury  of  the  grammar,  to 
the  great  grief  of  the  reader,  for  most  part ! What 
we  want  to  get  at  is  the  thought  the  man  had,  if  he 
had  any : why  should  he  twist  it  into  jingle,  if  he 
could  speak  it  out  plainly  ? It  is  only  when  the  heart 
of  him  is  rapt  into  true  passion  of  melody,  and  the 

111 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

very  tones  of  him,  according  to  Coleridge’s  remark, 
become  musical  by  the  greatness,  depth  and  music 
of  his  thoughts,  that  we  can  give  him  right  to  rhyme 
and  sing  ; that  we  call  him  a Poet,  and  listen  to  him 
as  the  Heroic  of  Speakers, — whose  speech  is  Song. 
Pretenders  to  this  are  many ; and  to  an  earnest 
reader,  I doubt,  it  is  for  most  part  a very  melancholy, 
not  to  say  an  insupportable  business,  that  of  reading 
rhyme ! Rhyme  that  had  no  inward  necessity  to  be 
rhymed ; — it  ought  to  have  told  us  plainly,  without 
any  jingle,  what  it  was  aiming  at.  I would  advise  all 
men  who  can  speak  their  thought,  not  to  sing  it ; to 
understand  that,  in  a serious  time,  among  serious 
men,  there  is  no  vocation  in  them  for  singing  it.  Pre- 
cisely as  we  love  the  true  song,  and  are  charmed  by 
it  as  by  something  divine,  so  shall  we  hate  the  false 
song,  and  account  it  a mere  wooden  noise,  a thing 
hollow,  superfluous,  altogether  an  insincere  and 
offensive  thing. 

I give  Dante  my  highest  praise  when  I say  of  his 
Divine  Comedy  that  it  is,  in  all  senses,  genuinely  a Song. 
In  the  very  sound  of  it  there  is  a canto  fermo;  it  pro- 
ceeds as  by  a chant.  The  language,  his  simple  terza 
rima,  doubtless  helped  him  in  this.  One  reads  along 
naturally  with  a sort  of  lilt.  But  I add,  that  it  could 
not  be  otherwise ; for  the  essence  and  material  of  the 
work  are  themselves  rhythmic.  Its  depth,  and  rapt 
passion  and  sincerity,  makes  it  musical; — go  deep 
enough,  there  is  music  everywhere.  A true  inward 
symmetry,  what  one  calls  an  architectural  harmony, 
reigns  in  it,  proportionates  it  all : architectural ; which 
also  partakes  of  the  character  of  music.  The  three 
kingdoms.  Inferno, Purgatorio,ParadisOy  look-out  on  one 
another  like  compartments  of  a great  edifice  ; a great 
supernatural  world- cathedral,  piled- up  there,  stern, 
solemn,  awful ; Dante’s  World  of  Souls ! It  is,  at 
112 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

bottom,  the  sincerest  of  all  Poems ; sincerity,  here  too, 
we  find  to  be  the  measure  of  worth.  It  came  deep  out 
of  the  author’s  heart  of  hearts  ; and  it  goes  deep,  and 
through  long  generations,  into  ours.  The  people  of 
Verona,  when  they  saw  him  on  the  streets,  used  to 
say,  “ Eccovi  t uom  ch!  e stato  alV  Inferno,  See,  there  is 
the  man  that  was  in  Hell !”  Ah,  yes,  he  had  been  in 
Hell ; — in  Hell  enough,  in  long  severe  sorrow  and 
struggle ; as  the  like  of  him  is  pretty  sure  to  have 
been.  Gommediasthat  come-out  diVm^are  not  accom- 
plished otherwise.  Thought,  true  labour  of  any  kind, 
highest  virtue  itself,  is  it  not  the  daughter  of  Pain  ? 
Born  as  out  of  the  black  whirlwind ; — true  ejfori,  in 
fact,  as  of  a captive  struggling  to  free  himself : that  is 
Thought.  In  all  ways  we  are  ‘to  become  perfect 
through  suffering,^ — But,  as  I say,  no  work  known 
to  me  is  so  elaborated  as  this  of  Dante’s.  It  has  all 
been  as  if  molten,  in  the  hottest  furnace  of  his  soul. 
It  had  made  him  ‘lean’  for  many  years.  Not  the 
general  whole  only  ; every  compartment  of  it  is 
worked-out,  with  intense  earnestness,  into  truth, 
into  clear  visuality.  Each  answers  to  the  other ; 
each  fits  in  its  place,  like  a marble  stone  accurately 
hewn  and  polished.  It  is  the  soul  of  Dante,  and  in 
this  the  soul  of  the  middle  ages,  rendered  forever 
rhythmically  visible  there.  No  light  task;  a right 
intense  one  : but  a task  which  is  done. 

Perhaps  one  would  say,  intensity,  with  the  much 
that  depends  on  it,  is  the  prevailing  character  of 
Dante’s  genius.  Dante  does  not  come  before  us  as 
a large  catholic  mind ; rather  as  a narrow,  and  even 
sectarian  mind : it  is  partly  the  fruit  of  his  age  and 
position,  but  partly  too  of  his  own  nature.  His 
greatness  has,  in  all  senses,  concentered!  itself  into 
fiery  emphasis  and  depth.  He  is  world-great  not 
because  he  is  world- wide,  but  because  he  is  world- 
h 113 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

deep.  Through  all  objects  he  pierces  as  it  were 
down  into  the  heart  of  Being.  I know  nothing  so 
intense  as  Dante.  Consider,  for  example,  to  begin 
with  the  outermost  development  of  his  intensity, 
consider  how  he  paints.  He  has  a great  power  of 
vision ; seizes  the  very  type  of  a thing ; presents 
that  and  nothing  more.  You  remember  that  first 
view  he  gets  of  the  Hall  of  Dite : red  pinnacle,  red- 
hot  cone  of  iron  glowing  through  the  dim  immensity 
of  gloom ; — so  vivid,  so  distinct,  visible  at  once  and 
forever ! It  is  as  an  emblem  of  the  whole  genius  of 
Dante.  There  is  a brevity,  an  abrupt  precision  in 
him  : Tacitus  is  not  briefer,  more  condensed ; and 
then  in  Dante  it  seems  a natural  condensation, 
spontaneous  to  the  man.  One  smiting  word ; and 
then  there  is  silence,  nothing  more  said.  His  silence 
is  more  eloquent  than  words.  It  is  strange  with 
what  a sharp  decisive  grace  he  snatches  the  true 
likeness  of  a matter ; cuts-into  the  matter  as  with  a 
pen  of  fire.  Plutus,  the  blustering  giant,  collapses 
at  Virgil’s  rebuke  ; it  is  ‘ as  the  sails  sink,  the  mast 
being  suddenly  broken.’  Or  that  poor  Brunetto 
Latini,  with  the  cotto  aspetto,  ^face  baked,  parched 
brown  and  lean ; and  the  ‘ fiery  snow  ’ that  falls 
on  them  there,  a ‘ fiery  snow  without  wind,’  slow, 
deliberate,  never-ending ! Or  the  lids  of  those 
Tombs ; square  sarcophaguses,  in  that  silent  dim- 
burning  Hall,  each  with  its  Soul  in  torment ; the 
lids  laid  open  there  ; they  are  to  be  shut  at  the  Day 
of  Judgment,  through  Eternity.  And  how  Farinata 
rises ; and  how  Gavalcante  falls — at  hearing  of  his 
Son,  and  the  past  tense  ^fueV  The  very  movements 
in  Dante  have  something  brief;  swift,  decisive, 
almost  military.  It  is  of  the  inmost  essence  of  his 
genius,  this  sort  of  painting.  The  fiery,  swift  Italian 
nature  of  the  man,  so  silent,  passionate,  with  its 
114 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

quick  abrupt  movements,  its  silent  ‘pale  rages,’ 
speaks  itself  in  these  things. 

For  though  this  of  painting  is  one  of  the  outer- 
most developments  of  a man,  it  comes  like  all 
else  from  the  essential  faculty  of  him;  it  is  phy- 
siognomical of  the  whole  man.  Find  a man  whose 
words  paint  you  a likeness,  you  have  found  a man 
worth  something  ; mark  his  manner  of  doing  it,  as 
very  characteristic  of  him.  In  the  first  place,  he 
could  not  have  discerned  the  object  at  all,  or  seen 
the  vital  type  of  it,  unless  he  had,  what  we  may  call, 
sympathised  with  it, — had  sympathy  in  him  to  bestow 
on  objects.  He  must  have  been  sincere  about  it  too  ; 
sincere  and  sympathetic : a man  without  worth  can- 
not give  you  the  likeness  of  any  object ; he  dwells 
in  vague  outwardness,  fallacy  and  trivial  hearsay, 
about  all  objects.  And  indeed  may  we  not  say  that 
intellect  altogether  expresses  itself  in  this  power  of 
discerning  what  an  object  is  ? Whatsoever  of  faculty 
a man’s  mind  may  have  will  come-out  here.  Is  it 
even  of  business,  a matter  to  be  done  ? The  gifted 
man  is  he  who  sees  the  essential  point,  and  leaves  all 
the  rest  aside  as  surplusage : it  is  his  faculty  too, 
the  man  of  business’s  faculty,  that  he  discern  the 
true  likeness,  not  the  false  superficial  one,  of  the 
thing  he  has  got  to  work  in.  And  how  much  of 
morality  is  in  the  kind  of  insight  we  get  of  anything ; 
‘ the  eye  seeing  in  all  things  what  it  brought  with  it 
the  faculty  of  seeing  ! ’ To  the  mean  eye  all  things 
are  trivial,  as  certainly  as  to  the  jaundiced  they  are 
yellow.  Raphael,  the  Painters  tell  us,  is  the  best  of 
all  Portrait- painters  withal.  No  most  gifted  eye  can 
exhaust  the  significance  of  any  object.  In  the  com- 
monest human  face  there  lies  more  than  Raphael 
will  take-away  with  him. 

Dante’s  painting  is  not  graphic  only,  brief,  true, 

115 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

and  of  a vividness  as  of  lire  in  dark  night ; taken  on 
the  wider  scale,  it  is  everyway  noble,  and  the  out- 
come of  a great  soul.  Francesca  and  her  Lover,  what 
qualities  in  that ! A thing  woven  as  out  of  rainbows, 
on  a ground  of  eternal  black.  A small  flute-voice 
of  infinite  wail  speaks  there,  into  our  very  heart  of 
hearts.  A touch  of  womanhood  in  it  too  ; della  bella 
persona,  che  mi  fu  tolta ; and  how,  even  in  the  Pit  of 
woe,  it  is  a solace  that  he  will  never  part  from  her  ! 
Saddest  tragedy  in  these  alti  guai.  And  the  racking 
winds,  in  that  aer  bruno,  whirl  them  away  again,  to 
wail  forever! — Strange  to  think:  Dante  was  the 
friend  of  this  poor  Francesca’s  father;  Francesca 
herself  may  have  sat  upon  the  Poet’s  knee,  as  a 
bright  innocent  little  child.  Infinite  pity,  yet  also 
infinite  rigour  of  law : it  is  so  Nature  is  made ; it 
is  so  Dante  discerned  that  she  was  made.  What  a 
paltry  notion  is  that  of  his  Divine  Comedy^ s being  a 
poor  splenetic  impotent  terrestrial  libel ; putting 
those  into  Hell  whom  he  could  not  be  avenged-upon 
on  earth ! I suppose  if  ever  pity,  tender  as  a mother’s, 
was  in  the  heart  of  any  man,  it  was  in  Dante’s. 
But  a man  who  does  not  know  rigour  cannot  pity 
either.  His  very  pity  will  be  cowardly,  egoistic, — 
sentimentality,  or  little  better.  I know  not  in  the 
world  an  affection  equal  to  that  of  Dante.  It  is  a 
tenderness,  a trembling,  longing,  pitying  love : like 
the  wail  of  ^olean  harps,  soft,  soft ; like  a child’s 
young  heart ; — and  then  that  stern,  sore-saddened 
heart ! These  longings  of  his  towards  his  Beatrice  ; 
their  meeting  together  in  the  Paradiso;  his  gazing  in 
her  pure  transfigured  eyes,  her  that  had  been  puri- 
fied by  death  so  long,  separated  from  him  so  far : — 
one  likens  it  to  the  song  of  angels ; it  is  among  the 
purest  utterances  of  affection,  perhaps  the  very 
purest,  that  ever  came  out  of  a human  soul. 

116 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

For  the  intense  Dante  is  intense  in  all  things ; he 
has  got  into  the  essence  of  all.  His  intellectual  in- 
sight, as  painter,  on  occasion  too  as  reasoner,  is  but 
the  result  of  all  other  sorts  of  intensity.  Morally 
great,  above  all,  we  must  call  him ; it  is  the  begin- 
ning of  all.  His  scorn,  his  grief  are  as  transcendent 
as  his  love  ; — as  indeed,  what  are  they  but  the  inverse 
or  converse  of  his  love  ? Dio  spiacenti  ed  a'  nemici 
sui.  Hateful  to  God  and  to  the  enemies  of  God:* 
lofty  scorn,  unappeasable  silent  reprobation  and 
aversion;  *Non  ragionam  di  lor.  We  will  not  speak  of 
them,  look  only  and  pass.*  Or  think  of  this  ; ‘ They 
have  not  the  hope  to  die.  Non  han  speranza  di  morte/ 
One  day,  it  had  risen  sternly  benign  on  the  scathed 
heart  of  Dante,  that  he,  wretched,  never-resting, 
worn  as  he  was,  would  full  surely  die  ; ‘ that  Destiny 
itself  could  not  doom  him  not  to  die.*  Such  words 
are  in  this  man.  For  rigour,  earnestness  and  depth, 
he  is  not  to  be  paralleled  in  the  modern  world ; to 
seek  his  parallel  we  must  go  into  the  Hebrew  Bible, 
and  live  with  the  antique  Prophets  there. 

I do  not  agree  with  much  modern  criticism,  in 
greatly  preferring  the  Inferno  to  the  two  other  parts 
of  the  Divine  Commedia,  Such  preference  belongs, 
I imagine,  to  our  general  Byronism  of  taste,  and 
is  like  to  be  a transient  feeling.  The  Purgatorio  and 
Paradiso,  especially  the  former,  one  would  almost 
say,  is  even  more  excellent  than  it.  It  is  a noble 
thing,  that  Purgatorio,*  Mountain  of  Purification  * ; an 
emblem  of  the  noblest  conception  of  that  age.  If  Sin 
is  so  fatal,  and  Hell  is  and  must  be  so  rigorous, 
awful,  yet  in  Repentance  too  is  man  purified ; Re- 
pentance is  the  grand  Christian  act.  It  is  beautiful 
how  Dante  works  it  out.  The  tremolar  delf  onde,  that 
‘ trembling^  of  the  ocean- waves,  under  the  first  pure 
gleam  of  morning,  dawning  afar  on  the  wandering 

117 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Two,  is  as  the  type  of  an  altered  mood.  Hope 
has  now  dawned;  never-dying  Hope,  if  in  company 
still  with  heavy  sorrow.  The  obscure  sojourn  of 
daemons  and  reprobate  is  underfoot ; a soft  breath- 
ing of  penitence  mounts  higher  and  higher,  to  the 
Throne  of  Mercy  itself.  “ Pray  for  me,”  the  deni- 
zens of  that  Mount  of  Pain  all  say  to  him.  Tell 
my  Giovanna  to  pray  for  me,”  my  daughter  Gio- 
vanna;  ‘‘I  think  her  mother  loves  me  no  more!” 
They  toil  painfully  up  by  that  winding  steep,  ‘bent- 
down  like  corbels  of  a building,’  some  of  them, — 
crushed-together  so  ‘ for  the  sin  of  pride ; ’ yet  never- 
theless in  years,  in  ages  and  aeons,  they  shall  have 
reached  the  top,  which  is  Heaven’s  gate,  and  by 
Mercy  shall  have  been  admitted  in.  The  joy  too  of 
all,  when  one  has  prevailed ; the  whole  Mountain 
shakes  with  joy,  and  a psalm  of  praise  rises,  when 
one  soul  has  perfected  repentance  and  got  its  sin 
and  misery  left  behind ! I call  all  this  a noble 
embodiment  of  a true  noble  thought. 

But  indeed  the  Three  compartments  mutually  sup- 
port one  another,  are  indispensable  to  one  another. 
The  Paradiso,  a kind  of  inarticulate  music  to  me,  is 
the  redeeming  side  of  the  Inferno;  the  Inferno  with- 
out it  were  untrue.  All  three  make-up  the  true  Un- 
seen World,  as  figured  in  the  Christianity  of  the 
Middle  Ages ; a thing  forever  memorable,  forever 
true  in  the  essence  of  it,  to  all  men.  It  was  perhaps 
delineated  in  no  human  soul  with  such  depth  of 
veracity  as  in  this  of  Dante’s ; a man  sent  to  sing  it, 
to  keep  it  long  memorable.  Very  notable  with  what 
brief  simplicity  he  passes  out  of  the  every-day  reality, 
into  the  Invisible  one ; and  in  the  second  or  third 
stanza,  we  find  ourselves  in  the  World  of  Spirits ; 
and  dwell  there,  as  among  things  palpable,  indubit- 
able ! To  Dante  they  were  so ; the  real  world,  as 
118 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

It  Is  called,  and  Its  facts,  was  but  the  threshold  to 
an  infinitely  higher  Fact  of  a World.  At  bottom, 
the  one  was  as  preternatural  as  the  other.  Has  not 
each  man  a soul  ? He  will  not  only  be  a spirit,  but 
is  one.  To  the  earnest  Dante  it  is  all  one  visible 
Fact ; he  believes  it,  sees  it ; is  the  Poet  of  it  in 
virtue  of  that.  Sincerity,  I say  again,  is  the  saving 
merit,  now  as  always. 

Dante’s  Hell,  Purgatory,  Paradise,  are  a symbol 
withal,  an  emblematic  representation  of  his  Belief 
about  this  Universe : — some  Critic  in  a future  age, 
like  those  Scandinavian  ones  the  other  day,  who 
has  ceased  altogether  to  think  as  Dante  did,  may 
find  this  too  all  an  ‘ Allegory,’  perhaps  an  idle  Alle- 
gory ! It  is  a sublime  embodiment,  or  sublimest,  of 
the  soul  of  Christianity.  It  expresses,  as  in  huge 
world-wide  architectural  emblems,  how  the  Chris- 
tian Dante  felt  Good  and  Evil  to  be  the  two  polar 
elements  of  this  Creation,  on  which  it  all  turns ; 
that  these  two  differ  not  by  preferability  of  one  to  the 
other,  but  by  incompatibility  absolute  and  Infinite ; 
that  the  one  is  excellent  and  high  as  light  and 
Heaven,  the  other  hideous,  black  as  Gehenna  and 
the  Pit  of  Hell ! Everlasting  Justice,  yet  with  Peni- 
tence, with  everlasting  Pity, — all  Christianism,  as 
Dante  and  the  Middle  Ages  had  it,  is  emblemed 
here.  Emblemed : and  yet,  as  I urged  the  other 
day,  with  what  entire  truth  of  purpose  ; how  uncon- 
scious of  any  embleming ! Hell,  Purgatory,  Paradise : 
these  things  were  not  fashioned  as  emblems ; was 
there,  in  our  Modern  European  Mind,  any  thought 
at  all  of  their  being  emblems  ! Were  they  not  in- 
dubitable awful  facts  ; the  whole  heart  of  man  taking 
them  for  practically  true,  all  Nature  everywhere 
confirming  them  ? So  is  it  always  in  these  things. 
Men  do  not  believe  an  Allegory.  The  future  Critic, 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

whatever  his  new  thought  may  be,  who  considers 
this  of  Dante  to  have  been  all  got-up  as  an  Allegory, 
will  commit  one  sore  mistake ! — Paganism  we  re- 
cognised as  a veracious  expression  of  the  earnest 
awe-struck  feeling  of  man  towards  the  Universe  ; 
veracious,  true  once,  and  still  not  without  worth 
for  us.  But  mark  here  the  difference  of  Paganism 
and  Ghristianism ; one  great  difference.  Paganism 
emblemed  chiefly  the  Operations  of  Nature ; the 
destinies,  efforts,  combinations,  vicissitudes  of  things 
and  men  in  this  world  ; Ghristianism  emblemed  the 
Law  of  Human  Duty,  the  Moral  Law  of  Man.  One 
was  for  the  sensuous  nature : a rude  helpless  utter- 
ance of  the  first  Thought  of  men, — the  chief  recog- 
nised virtue,  Gourage,  Superiority  to  Fear.  The 
other  was  not  for  the  sensuous  nature,  but  for  the 
moral.  What  a progress  is  here,  if  in  that  one 
respect  only ! — 

And  so  in  this  Dante,  as  we  said,  had  ten  silent 
centuries,  in  a very  strange  way,  found  a voice. 
The  Divina  Commedia  is  of  Dante’s  writing  ; yet  in 
truth  it  belongs  to  ten  Ghristian  centuries,  only  the 
finishing  of  it  is  Dante’s.  So  always.  The  craftsman 
there,  the  smith  with  that  metal  of  his,  with  these 
tools,  with  these  cunning  methods, — how  little  of 
all  he  does  is  properly  his  work  ! All  past  inventive 
men  work  there  with  him  ; — as  indeed  with  all  of 
us,  in  all  things.  Dante  is  the  spokesman  of  the 
Middle  Ages;  the  Thought  they  live  by  stands 
here,  in  everlasting  music.  These  sublime  ideas 
of  his,  terrible  and  beautiful,  are  the  fruit  of  the 
Ghristian  Meditation  of  all  the  good  men  who  had 
gone  before  him.  Precious  they ; but  also  is  not  he 
precious  ? Much,  had  not  he  spoken,  would  have 
been  dumb ; not  dead,  yet  living  voiceless. 

120 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

On  the  whole,  is  it  not  an  utterance,  this  mystic 
Song,  at  once  of  one  of  the  greatest  human  souls, 
and  of  the  highest  thing  that  Europe  had  hitherto 
realised  for  itself  ? Ghristiamsm,  as  Dante  sings  it, 
is  another  than  Paganism  in  the  rude  Norse  mind ; 
another  than  ‘ Bastard  Ghristianism  ’ half-articu- 
lately  spoken  in  the  Arab  Desert,  seven-hundred 
years  before  ! — The  noblest  idea  made  real  hitherto 
among  men,  is  sung,  and  emblemed-forth  abidingly, 
by  one  of  the  noblest  men.  In  the  one  sense  and  in 
the  other,  are  we  not  right  glad  to  possess  it  ? As 
I calculate,  it  may  last  yet  for  long  thousands  of 
years.  For  the  thing  that  is  uttered  from  the  in- 
most parts  of  a man’s  soul,  differs  altogether  from 
what  is  uttered  by  the  outer  part.  The  outer  is 
of  the  day,  under  the  empire  of  mode;  the  outer 
passes  away,  in  swift  endless  changes ; the  inmost 
is  the  same  yesterday,  today  and  forever.  True 
souls,  in  all  generations  of  the  world,  who  look  on 
this  Dante,  will  find  a brotherhood  in  him  ; the  deep 
sincerity  of  his  thoughts,  his  woes  and  hopes,  will 
speak  likewise  to  their  sincerity ; they  will  feel  that 
this  Dante  too  was  a brother.  Napoleon  in  Saint- 
Helena  is  charmed  with  the  genial  veracity  of  old 
Homer.  The  oldest  Hebrew  Prophet,  under  a ves- 
ture the  most  diverse  from  ours,  does  yet,  because 
he  speaks  from  the  heart  of  man,  speak  to  all  men’s 
hearts.  It  is  the  one  sole  secret  of  continuing  long 
memorable.  Dante,  for  depth  of  sincerity,  is  like 
an  antique  Prophet  too  ; his  words,  like  theirs,  come 
from  his  very  heart.  One  need  not  wonder  if  it 
were  predicted  that  his  Poem  might  be  the  most  en- 
during thing  our  Europe  has  yet  made  ; for  nothing 
so  endures  as  a truly  spoken  word.  All  cathedrals, 
pontificalities,  brass  and  stone,  and  outer  arrange- 
ment never  so  lasting,  are  brief  in  comparison  to  an 

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HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

unfathomable  heart-song  like  this : one  feels  as  if 
it  might  survive,  still  of  importance  to  men,  when 
these  had  all  sunk  into  new  irrecognisable  combina- 
tions, and  had  ceased  individually  to  be.  Europe 
has  made  much ; great  cities,  great  empires,  ency- 
clopaedias, creeds,  bodies  of  opinion  and  practice : 
but  it  has  made  little  of  the  class  of  Dante’s  Thought. 
Homer  yet  is,  veritably  present  face  to  face  with 
every  open  soul  of  us ; and  Greece,  where  is  it  ? 
Desolate  for  thousands  of  years  ; away;  vanished ; 
a bewildered  heap  of  stones  and  rubbish,  the  life 
and  existence  of  it  all  gone.  Like  a dream ; like  the 
dust  of  King  Agamemnon ! Greece  was ; Greece, 
except  in  the  words  it  spoke,  is  not. 

The  uses  of  this  Dante  ? We  will  not  say  much 
about  his  * uses.’  A human  soul  who  has  once  got 
into  that  primal  element  of  Song,  and  sung-forth 
fitly  somewhat  therefrom,  has  worked  in  the  depths 
of  our  existence ; feeding  through  long  times  the  life- 
roots  of  all  excellent  human  things  whatsoever, — in 
a way  that  ‘utilities’  will  not  succeed  well  in  calcu- 
lating ! We  will  not  estimate  the  Sun  by  the  quan- 
tity of  gas-light  it  saves  us ; Dante  shall  be  invalu- 
able, or  of  no  value.  One  remark  I may  make : the 
contrast  in  this  respect  between  the  Hero-Poet  and 
the  Hero-Prophet.  In  a hundred  years,  Mahomet, 
as  we  saw,  had  his  Arabians  at  Grenada  and  at 
Delhi ; Dante’s  Italians  seem  to  be  yet  very  much 
where  they  were.  Shall  we  say,  then,  Dante’s  effect 
on  the  world  was  small  in  comparison?  Not  so: 
his  arena  is  far  more  restricted ; but  also  it  is  far 
nobler,  clearer ; — perhaps  not  less  but  more  impor- 
tant. Mahomet  speaks  to  great  masses  of  men,  in 
the  coarse  dialect  adapted  to  such ; a dialect  filled 
with  inconsistencies,  crudities,  follies : on  the  great 
masses  alone  can  he  act,  and  there  with  good  and 
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THE  HERO  AS  POET 

with  evil  strangely  blended.  Dante  speaks  to  the 
noble,  the  pure  and  great,  in  all  times  and  places. 
Neither  does  he  grow  obsolete,  as  the  other  does. 
Dante  burns  as  a pure  star,  fixed  there  in  the  firma- 
ment, at  which  the  great  and  the  high  of  all  ages 
kindle  themselves : he  is  the  possession  of  all  the 
chosen  of  the  world  for  uncounted  time.  Dante,  one 
calculates,  may  long  survive  Mahomet.  In  this  way 
the  balance  may  be  made  straight  again. 

But,  at  any  rate,  it  is  not  by  what  is  called  their 
effect  on  the  world,  by  what  we  can  judge  of  their 
effect  there,  that  a man  and  his  work  are  measured. 
Effect?  Influence?  Utility?  Let  a man  do  his 
work ; the  fruit  of  it  is  the  care  of  Another  than  he. 
It  will  grow  its  own  fruit ; and  whether  embodied 
in  Caliph  Thrones  and  Arabian  Conquests,  so  that 
it  ‘fills  all  Morning  and  Evening  Newspapers,’  and 
all  Histories,  which  are  a kind  of  distilled  News- 
papers ; or  not  embodied  so  at  all ; — what  matters 
that  ? That  is  not  the  real  fruit  of  it ! The  Arabian 
Caliph,  in  so  far  only  as  he  did  something,  was 
something.  If  the  great  Cause  of  Man,  and  Man’s 
work  in  God’s  Earth,  got  no  furtherance  from  the 
Arabian  Caliph,'then  no  matter  how  many  scimetars 
he  drew,  how  many  gold  piasters  pocketed,  and 
what  uproar  and  blaring  he  made  in  this  world, — 
he  was  but  a loud-sounding  inanity  and  futility ; at 
bottom,  he  was  not  at  all.  Let  us  honour  the  great 
empire  of  Silence^  once  more  ! The  boundless  trea- 
sury which  we  do  not  jingle  in  our  pockets,  or  count- 
up  and  present  before  men ! It  is  perhaps,  of  all 
things,  the  usefullest  for  each  of  us  to  do,  in  these 
loud  times. — 

As  Dante,  the  Italian  man,  was  sent  into  our 
world  to  embody  musically  the  Religion  of  the 

123 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Middle  Ages,  the  Religion  of  our  Modern  Europe, 
its  Inner  Life ; so  Shakspeare,  we  may  say,  embodies 
for  us  the  Outer  Life  of  our  Europe  as  developed 
then,  its  chivalries,  courtesies,  humours,  ambitions, 
what  practical  way  of  thinking,  acting,  looking  at 
the  world,  men  then  had.  As  in  Homer  we  may 
still  construe  Old  Greece;  so  in  Shakspeare  and 
Dante,  after  thousands  of  years,  what  our  modern 
Europe  was,  in  Faith  and  in  Practice,  will  still  be 
legible.  Dante  has  given  us  the  Faith  or  soul; 
Shakspeare,  in  a not  less  noble  way,  has  given  us 
the  Practice  or  body.  This  latter  also  we  were  to 
have ; a man  was  sent  for  it,  the  man  Shakspeare. 
Just  when  that  chivalry  way  of  life  had  reached  its 
last  finish,  and  was  on  the  point  of  breaking  down 
into  slow  or  swift  dissolution,  as  we  now  see  it  every- 
where, this  other  sovereign  Poet,  with  his  seeing  eye, 
with  his  perennial  singing  voice,  was  sent  to  take 
note  of  it,  to  give  long-enduring  record  of  it.  Two 
fit  men : Dante,  deep,  fierce  as  the  central  fire  of  the 
world ; Shakspeare,  wide,  placid,  far-seeing,  as  the 
Sun,  the  upper  light  of  the  world.  Italy  produced 
the  one  world-voice ; we  English  had  the  honour  of 
producing  the  other. 

Curious  enough  how,  as  it  were  by  mere  accident, 
this  man  came  to  us.  I think  always,  so  great,  quiet, 
complete  and  self-sufiicing  is  this  Shakspeare,  had 
the  Warwickshire  Squire  not  prosecuted  him  for 
deer-stealing,  we  had  perhaps  never  heard  of  him  as 
a Poet ! The  woods  and  skies,  the  rustic  Life  of 
Man  in  Stratford  there,  had  been  enough  for  this 
man ! But  indeed  that  strange  outbudding  of  our 
whole  English  Existence,  which  we  call  the  Eliza- 
bethan Era,  did  not  it  too  come  as  of  its  own  accord  ? 
The  ‘ Tree  Igdrasil  ’ buds  and  withers  by  its  own 
laws, — too  deep  for  our  scanning.  Yet  it  does  bud 
124 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

and  wither,  and  every  bough  and  leaf  of  it  is  there, 
by  fixed  eternal  laws ; not  a Sir  Thomas  Lucy  but 
comes  at  the  hour  fit  for  him.  Curious,  I say,  and 
not  sufiiciently  considered:  how  everything  does 
co-operate  with  all ; not  a leaf  rotting  on  the  high- 
way but  is  indissoluble  portion  of  solar  and  stellar 
systems ; no  thought,  word  or  act  of  man  but  has 
sprung  withal  out  of  all  men,  and  works  sooner  or 
later,  recognisably  or  irrecognisably,  on  all  men ! 
It  is  all  a Tree : circulation  of  sap  and  influences, 
mutual  communication  of  every  minutest  leaf  with 
the  lowest  talon  of  a root,  with  every  other  greatest 
and  minutest  portion  of  the  whole.  The  Tree  Igdrasil, 
that  has  its  roots  down  in  the  Kingdoms  of  Hela  and 
Death,  and  whose  boughs  overspread  the  highest 
Heaven ! — 

In  some  sense  it  may  be  said  that  this  glorious 
Elizabethan  Era  with  its  Shakspeare,  as  the  out- 
come and  flowerage  of  all  which  had  preceded  it, 
is  itself  attributable  to  the  Catholicism  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  The  Christian  Faith,  which  was  the 
theme  of  Dante’s  Song,  had  produced  this  Practical 
Life  which  Shakspeare  was  to  sing.  For  Religion 
then,  as  it  now  and  always  is,  was  the  soul  of 
Practice;  the  primary  vital  fact  in  men’s  life.  And 
remark  here,  as  rather  curious,  that  Middle-Age 
Catholicism  was  abolished,  so  far  as  Acts  of  Parlia- 
ment could  abolish  it,  before  Shakspeare,  the  noblest 
product  of  it,  made  his  appearance.  He  did  make 
his  appearance  nevertheless.  Nature  at  her  own 
time,  with  Catholicism  or  what  else  might  be  neces- 
sary, sent  him  forth  ; taking  small  thoughts  of  Acts 
of  Parliament.  King-Henrys,  Queen-Elizabeths  go 
their  way;  and  Nature  too  goes  hers.  Acts  of  Parlia- 
ment, on  the  whole,  are  small,  notwithstanding  the 
noise  they  make.  What  Act  of  Parliament,  debate 

125 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

at  St.  Stephen’s,  on  the  hustings  or  elsewhere,  was 
it  that  brought  this  Shakspeare  into  being  ? No 
dining  at  Freemasons’ Tavern,  opening  subscription- 
lists,  selling  of  shares,  and  infinite  other  jangling 
and  true  or  false  endeavouring  ! This  Elizabethan 
Era,  and  all  its  nobleness  and  blessedness,  came 
without  proclamation,  preparation  of  ours.  Price- 
less Shakspeare  was  the  free  gift  of  Nature ; given 
altogether  silently; — received  altogether  silently, 
as  if  it  had  been  a thing  of  little  account.  And  yet, 
very  literally,  it  is  a priceless  thing.  One  should 
look  at  that  side  of  matters  too. 

Of  this  Shakspeare  of  ours,  periiaps  the  opinion 
one  sometimes  hears  a little  idolatrously  expressed 
is,  in  fact,  the  right  one ; I think  the  best  judgment 
not  of  this  country  only,  but  of  Europe  at  large,  is 
slowly  pointing  to  the  conclusion.  That  Shakspeare 
is  the  chief  of  all  Poets  hitherto ; the  greatest  intel- 
lect who,  in  our  recorded  world,  has  left  record  of 
himself  in  the  way  of  Literature.  On  the  whole,  I 
know  not  such  a power  of  vision,  such  a faculty  of 
thought,  if  we  take  all  the  characters  of  it,  in  any 
other  man.  Such  a calmness  of  depth ; placid  joy- 
ous strength ; all  things  imaged  in  that  great  soul  of 
his  so  true  and  clear,  as  in  a tranquil  unfathomable 
sea ! It  has  been  said,  that  in  the  constructing  of 
Shakspeare’s  Dramas  there  is,  apart  from  all  other 
‘faculties’  as  they  are  called,  an  understanding 
manifested,  equal  to  that  in  Bacon’s  Novum  Organum. 
That  is  true ; and  it  is  not  a truth  that  strikes  every 
one.  It  would  become  more  apparent  if  we  tried, 
any  of  us  for  himself,  how,  out  of  Shakspeare’s 
dramatic  materials,  we  could  fashion  such  a result  1 
The  built  house  seems  all  so  fit, — everyway  as  it 
should  be,  as  if  it  came  there  by  its  own  law  and 
the  nature  of  things, — we  forget  the  rude  disorderly 
126 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

quarry  It  was  shaped  from.  The  very  perfection  of 
the  house,  as  if  Nature  herself  had  made  it,  hides 
the  builder’s  merit.  Perfect,  more  perfect  than 
any  other  man,  we  may  call  Shakspeare  in  this : he 
discerns,  knows  as  by  instinct,  what  condition  he 
works  under,  what  his  materials  are,  what  his  own 
force  and  Its  relation  to  them  is.  It  Is  not  a transitory 
glance  of  insight  that  will  suffice  ; it  Is  deliberate 
Illumination  of  the  whole  matter  ; it  is  a calmly  see- 
ing  eye ; a great  intellect,  in  short.  How  a man,  of 
some  wide  thing  that  he  has  witnessed,  will  con- 
struct a narrative,  what  kind  of  picture  and  delinea- 
tion he  will  give  of  it, — is  the  best  measure  you 
could  get  of  what  Intellect  is  in  the  man.  Which 
circumstance  is  vital  and  shall  stand  prominent; 
which  unessential,  fit  to  be  suppressed  ; where  is  the 
true  beginning,  the  true  sequence  and  ending  ? To 
find  out  this,  you  task  the  whole  force  of  Insight 
that  is  in  the  man.  He  must  understand  the  thing  ; 
according  to  the  depth  of  his  understanding,  will 
the  fitness  of  his  answer  be.  You  will  try  him  so. 
Does  like  join  Itself  to  like ; does  the  spirit  of  method 
stir  in  that  confusion,  so  that  its  embroilment  be- 
comes order  ? Can  the  man  say.  Fiat  lux.  Let  there 
be  light;  and  out  of  chaos  make  a world  ? Precisely 
as  there  is  light  In  himself,  will  he  accomplish  this. 

Or  indeed  we  may  say  again,  it  is  In  what  I called 
Portrait- painting,  delineating  of  men  and  thirds, 
especially  of  men,  that  Shakspeare  is  great.  All  the 
greatness  of  the  man  comes  out  decisively  here.  It 
is  unexampled,  I think,  that  calm  creative  perspica- 
city of  Shakspeare.  The  thing  he  looks  at  reveals 
not  this  or  that  face  of  it,  but  its  inmost  heart,  and 
generic  secret : it  dissolves  itself  as  in  light  before 
him,  so  that  he  discerns  the  perfect  structure  of  it. 
Creative,  we  said : poetic  creation,  what  Is  this  too 

127 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

but  seeing  the  thing  sufficiently  ? The  word  that  will 
describe  the  thing,  follows  of  itself  from  such  clear 
intense  sight  of  the  thing.  And  is  not  Shakspeare’s 
morality,  his  valour,  candour,  tolerance,  truthful- 
ness ; his  whole  victorious  strength  and  greatness, 
which  can  triumph- over  such  obstructions,  visible 
there  too  ? Great  as  the  world ! No  twisted,  poor 
convex- concave  mirror,  reflecting  all  objects  with 
its  own  convexities  and  concavities;  a perfectly 
level  mirror ; — that  is  to  say  withal,  if  we  will  under- 
stand it,  a man  justly  related  to  all  things  and  men, 
a good  man.  It  is  truly  a lordly  spectacle  how  this 
great  soul  takes-in  all  kinds  of  men  and  objects,  a 
Falstaflf,  an  Othello,  a Juliet,  a Goriolanus;  sets 
them  all  forth  to  us  in  their  round  completeness ; 
loving,  just,  the  equal  brother  of  all.  Novum  Organum, 
and  all  the  intellect  you  will  find  in  Bacon,  is  of  a 
quite  secondary  order ; earthy,  material,  poor  in 
comparison  with  this.  Among  modern  men,  one 
finds,  in  strictness,  almost  nothing  of  the  same  rank. 
Goethe  alone,  since  the  days  of  Shakspeare,  reminds 
me  of  it.  Of  him  too  you  say  that  he  saw  the  object ; 
you  may  say  what  he  himself  says  of  Shakspeare  : 
‘ His  characters  are  like  watches  with  dial-plates  of 
transparent  crystal;  they  show  you  the  hour  like 
others,  and  the  inward  mechanism  also  is  all  visible.^ 
The  seeing  eye ! It  is  this  that  discloses  the 
inner  harmony  of  things ; what  Nature  meant,  what 
musical  idea  Nature  has  wrapped-up  in  these  often 
rough  embodiments.  Something  she  did  mean.  To 
the  seeing  eye  that  something  were  discernible. 
Are  they  base,  miserable  things?  You  can  laugh 
over  them,  you  can  weep  over  them ; you  can  in 
some  way  or  other  genially  relate  yourself  to 
them ; — you  can,  at  lowest,  hold  your  peace  about 
them,  turn  away  your  own  and  others’  face  from 
128 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

them,  till  the  hour  come  for  practically  extermi- 
nating and  extinguishing  them ! At  bottom,  it  is 
the  Poet’s  first  gift,  as  it  is  all  men’s,  that  he  have 
intellect  enough.  He  will  be  a Poet  if  he  have  : a 
Poet  in  word  ; or  failing  that,  perhaps  still  better, 
a Poet  in  act.  Whether  he  write  at  all ; and  if  so, 
whether  in  prose  or  in  verse,  will  depend  on  acci- 
dents : who  knows  on  what  extremely  trivial  acci- 
dents,— perhaps  on  his  having  had  a singing-master, 
on  his  being  taught  to  sing  in  his  boyhood ! But 
the  faculty  which  enables  him  to  discern  the  inner 
heart  of  things,  and  the  harmony  that  dwells  there 
(for  whatsoever  exists  has  a harmony  in  the  heart 
of  it,  or  it  would  not  hold  together  and  exist),  is 
not  the  result  of  habits  or  accidents,  but  the  gift 
of  Nature  herself;  the  primary  outfit  for  a Heroic 
Man  in  what  sort  soever.  To  the  Poet,  as  to  every 
other,  we  say  first  of  all.  See.  If  you  cannot  do 
that,  it  is  of  no  use  to  keep  stringing  rhymes  to- 
gether, jingling  sensibilities  against  each  other,  and 
name  yourself  a Poet;  there  is  no  hope  for  you. 
If  you  can,  there  is,  in  prose  or  verse,  in  action  or 
speculation,  all  manner  of  hope.  The  crabbed  old 
Schoolmaster  used  to  ask,  when  they  brought  him 
a new  pupil,  ‘‘  But  are  ye  sure  he’s  not  a dance  ? ” 
Why,  really  one  might  ask  the  same  thing,  in  regard 
to  every  man  proposed  for  whatsoever  function ; 
and  consider  it  520  the  one  inquiry  needful : Are 
ye  sure  he’s  not  a.  dunce  ? There  is,  in  this  world, 
no  other  entirely  fatal  person. 

For,  in  fact,  I say  the  degree  of  vision  that 
dwells  in  a man  is  a correct  measure  of  the  man. 
If  called  to  define  Shakspeare’s  faculty,  I should 
say  superiority  of  Intellect,  and  think  I had  in- 
cluded all  under  that.  What  indeed  are  faculties  ? 
We  talk  of  faculties  as  if  they  were  distinct,  things 
i 129 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

separable ; as  if  a man  had  Intellect,  imagination, 
fancy,  &c.,  as  he  has  hands,  feet  and  arms.  That 
is  a capital  error.  Then  again,  we  hear  of  a man’s 
‘ intellectual  nature,’  and  of  his  ‘ moral  nature,’  as 
if  these  again  were  divisible,  and  existed  apart. 
Necessities  of  language  do  perhaps  prescribe  such 
forms  of  utterance ; we  must  speak,  I am  aware, 
in  that  way,  if  we  are  to  speak  at  all.  But  words 
ought  not  to  harden  into  things  for  us.  It  seems  to 
me,  our  apprehension  of  this  matter  Is,  for  most 
part,  radically  falsified  thereby.  We  ought  to  know 
withal,  and  to  keep  forever  in  mind,  that  these 
divisions  are  at  bottom  but  names;  that  man’s 
spiritual  nature,  the  vital  Force  which  dwells  In 
him,  is  essentially  one  and  Indivisible ; that  what 
we  call  imagination,  fancy,  understanding,  and  so 
forth,  are  but  different  figures  of  the  same  Power 
of  Insight,  all  indissolubly  connected  with  each 
other,  physiognomically  related ; that  if  we  knew 
one  of  them,  we  might  know  all  of  them.  Morality 
Itself,  what  we  call  the  moral  quality  of  a man, 
what  is  this  but  another  side  of  the  one  vital  F orce 
whereby  he  is  and  works  ? All  that  a man  does  is 
physiognomical  of  him.  You  may  see  how  a man 
would  fight,  by  the  way  in  which  he  sings;  his 
courage,  or  want  of  courage,  is  visible  in  the  word 
he  utters,  in  the  opinion  he  has  formed,  no  less 
than  in  the  stroke  he  strikes.  He  is  one;  and 
preaches  the  same  Self  abroad  In  all  these  ways. 

Without  hands  a man  might  have  feet,  and  could 
still  walk ; but,  consider  it, — without  morality,  intel- 
lect were  impossible  for  him  ; a thoroughly  immoral 
man  could  not  know  anything  at  all ! To  know  a 
thing,  what  we  can  call  knowing,  a man  must  first 
love  the  thing,  sympathise  with  it : that  Is,  be  vir- 
tuously related  to  it.  If  he  have  not  the  justice  to 
130 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

put  down  his  own  selfishness  at  every  turn,  the 
courage  to  stand  by  the  dangerous-true  at  every 
turn,  how  shall  he  know  ? His  virtues,  all  of  them, 
will  lie  recorded  in  his  knowledge.  Nature,  with 
her  truth,  remains  to  the  bad,  to  the  selfish  and  the 
pusillanimous  forever  a sealed  book : what  such 
can  know  of  Nature  is  mean,  superficial,  small ; 
for  the  uses  of  the  day  merely. — But  does  not  the 
very  Fox  know  something  of  Nature?  Exactly 
so:  it  knows  where  the  geese  lodge!  The  human 
Reynard,  very  frequent  everywhere  in  the  world, 
what  more  does  he  know  but  this  and  the  like  of 
this  ? Nay,  it  should  be  considered  too,  that  if  the 
Fox  had  not  a certain  vulpine  morality,  he  could 
not  even  know  where  the  geese  were,  or  get  at 
the  geese ! If  he  spent  his  time  in  splenetic  atra- 
biliar  reflections  on  his  own  misery,  his  ill  usage 
by  Nature,  Fortune  and  other  Foxes,  and  so  forth ; 
and  had  not  courage,  promptitude,  practicality,  and 
other  suitable  vulpine  gifts  and  graces,  he  would 
catch  no  geese.  We  may  say  of  the  Fox  too,  that 
his  morality  and  insight  are  of  the  same  dimen- 
sions ; different  faces  of  the  same  internal  unity  of 
vulpine  life  ! — These  things  are  worth  stating  ; for 
the  contrary  of  them  acts  with  manifold  very 
baleful  perversion,  in  this  time : what  limitations, 
modifications  they  require,  your  own  candour  will 
supply. 

If  I say,  therefore,  that  Shakspeare  is  the  greatest 
of  Intellects,  I have  said  all  concerning  him.  But 
there  is  more  in  Shakspeare’s  intellect  than  we 
have  yet  seen.  It  is  what  I call  an  unconscious 
intellect ; there  is  more  virtue  in  it  than  he  himself 
is  aware  of.  Novalis  beautifully  remarks  of  him, 
that  those  Dramas  of  his  are  Products  of  Nature 
too,  deep  as  Nature  herself.  I find  a great  truth  in 

131 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

this  saying.  Shakspeare’s  Art  is  not  Artifice ; the 
noblest  worth  of  it  is  not  there  by  plan  or  precon- 
trivance. It  grows-up  from  the  deeps  of  Nature, 
through  this  noble  sincere  soul,  who  is  a voice  of 
Nature.  The  latest  generations  of  men  will  find  new 
meanings  in  Shakspeare,  new  elucidations  of  their 
own  human  being ; ‘ new  harmonies  with  the  infi- 
nite structure  of  the  Universe ; concurrences  with 
later  ideas,  affinities  with  the  higher  powers  and 
senses  of  man.’  This  well  deserves  meditating. 
It  is  Nature’s  highest  reward  to  a true  simple  great 
soul,  that  he  get  thus  to  be  a part  of  herself  Such  a 
man’s  works,  whatsoever  he  with  utmost  conscious 
exertion  and  forethought  shall  accomplish , grow 
up  withal  anconsciously,  from  the  unknown  deeps 
in  him ; — as  the  oak-tree  grows  from  the  Earth’s 
bosom,  as  the  mountains  and  waters  shape  them- 
selves ; with  a symmetry  grounded  on  Nature’s  own 
laws,  conformable  to  all  Truth  whatsoever.  How 
much  in  Shakspeare  lies  hid ; his  sorrows,  his  silent 
struggles  known  to  himself;  much  that  was  not 
known  at  all,  not  speakable  at  all : like  roots,  like 
sap  and  forces  working  underground  ! Speech  is 
great ; but  Silence  is  greater. 

Withal  the  joyful  tranquillity  of  this  man  is 
notable.  I will  not  blame  Dante  for  his  misery : it 
is  as  battle  without  victory  ; but  true  battle, — the 
first,  indispensable  thing.  Yet  I call  Shakspeare 
greater  than  Dante,  in  that  he  fought  truly,  and  did 
conquer.  Doubt  it  not,  he  had  his  own  sorrows : 
those  Sonnets  of  his  will  even  testify  expressly  in 
what  deep  waters  he  had  waded,  and  swum  strug- 
gling for  his  life  ; — as  what  man  like  him  ever  failed 
to  have  to  do  ? It  seems  to  me  a heedless  notion, 
our  common  one,  that  he  sat  like  a bird  on  the 
bough ; and  sang  forth,  free  and  oflThand,  never 
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THE  HERO  AS  POET 

knowing  the  troubles  of  other  men.  Not  so  ; with 
no  man  is  it  so.  How  could  a man  travel  forward 
from  rustic  deer-poaching  to  such  tragedy-writing, 
and  not  fall-in  with  sorrows  by  the  way  ? Or,  still 
better,  how  could  a man  delineate  a Hamlet,  a 
Goriolanus,  a Macbeth,  so  many  suffering  heroic 
hearts,  if  his  own  heroic  heart  had  never  suf- 
fered ? — And  now.  In  contrast  with  all  this,  observe 
his  mirthfulness,  his  genuine  overflowing  love  of 
laughter  ! You  would  say,  in  no  point  does  he 
exaggerate  but  only  in  laughter.  Fiery  objurgations, 
words  that  pierce  and  burn,  are  to  be  found  in 
Shakspeare  ; yet  he  is  always  in  measure  here ; 
never  what  Johnson  would  remark  as  a specially 
‘ good  hater.’  But  his  laughter  seems  to  pour  from 
him  in  floods  ; he  heaps  all  manner  of  ridiculous 
nicknames  on  the  butt  he  is  bantering,  tumbles  and 
tosses  him  in  all  sorts  of  horse-play  ; you  would  say, 
roars  and  laughs.  And  then,  if  not  always  the 
finest.  It  is  always  a genial  laughter.  Not  at  mere 
weakness,  at  misery  or  poverty;  never.  No  man 
who  can  laugh,  what  we  call  laughing,  will  laugh 
at  these  things.  It  is  some  poor  character  only 
desiring  to  laugh,  and  have  the  credit  of  wit,  that 
does  so.  Laughter  means  sympathy  ; good  laughter 
is  not  ‘ the  crackling  of  thorns  under  the  pot.’  Even 
at  stupidity  and  pretension  this  Shakspeare  does 
not  laugh  otherwise  than  genially.  Dogberry  and 
Verges  tickle  our  very  hearts  ; and  we  dismiss 
them  covered  with  explosions  of  laughter  : but  we 
like  the  poor  fellows  only  the  better  for  our  laugh- 
ing; and  hope  they  will  get  on  well  there,  and 
continue  Presidents  of  the  City-watch. — Such 
laughter,  like  sunshine  on  the  deep  sea,  is  very 
beautiful  to  me. 

We  have  no  room  to  speak  of  Shakspeare’s 

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HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

individual  works ; though  perhaps  there  Is  much 
still  waiting  to  be  said  on  that  head.  Had  we,  for 
instance,  all  his  Plays  reviewed  as  Hamlet,  in  Wilhelm 
Meister,  is  ! A thing  which  might,  one  day,  be  done, 
August  Wilhelm  Schlegel  has  a remark  on  his 
Historical  Plays,  Henry  Fifth  and  the  others,  which 
is  worth  remembering.  He  calls  them  a kind  of 
National  Epic.  Marlborough,  you  recollect,  said, 
he  knew  no  English  History  but  what  he  had  learned 
from  Shakspeare.  There  are  really,  if  we  look  to 
it,  few  as  memorable  Histories.  The  great  salient 
points  are  admirably  seized ; all  rounds  itself  off, 
into  a kind  of  rhythmic  coherence ; It  is,  as  Schlegel 
says,  epic; — as  indeed  all  delineation  by  a great 
thinker  will  be.  There  are  right  beautiful  things  in 
those  Pieces,  which  indeed  together  form  one  beau- 
tiful thing.  That  battle  of  Agincourt  strikes  me  as 
one  of  the  most  perfect  things,  in  its  sort,  we  any- 
where have  of  Shakspeare’s.  The  description  of 
the  two  hosts : the  worn-out,  jaded  English ; the 
dread  hour,  big  with  destiny,  when  the  battle  shall 
begin  ; and  then  that  deathless  valour : “Ye  good 
yeomen,  whose  limbs  were  made  in  England ! ” 
There  is  a noble  Patriotism  In  it, — far  other  than 
the  ‘ Indifference  ’ you  sometimes  hear  ascribed  to 
Shakspeare.  A true  English  heart  breathes,  calm 
and  strong,  through  the  whole  business;  not  bois- 
terous, protrusive ; all  the  better  for  that.  There  is 
a sound  In  It  like  the  ring  of  steel.  This  man  too 
had  a right  stroke  in  him,  had  it  come  to  that ! 

But  I will  say,  of  Shakspeare’s  works  generally, 
that  we  have  no  full  impress  of  him  there  ; even  as 
full  as  we  have  of  many  men.  His  works  are  so 
many  windows,  through  which  we  see  a glimpse  of 
the  world  that  was  in  him.  All  his  works  seem, 
comparatively  speaking,  cursory,  imperfect,  written 
134 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

under  cramping  circumstances;  giving  only  here 
and  there  a note  of  the  full  utterance  of  the  man. 
Passages  there  are  that  come  upon  you  like  splen- 
dour out  of  Heaven  ; bursts  of  radiance,  illuminat- 
ing the  very  heart  of  the  thing : you  say,  “ That  is 
true,  spoken  once  and  forever;  wheresoever  and 
whensoever  there  is  an  open  human  soul,  that  will 
be  recognised  as  true ! ” Such  bursts,  however, 
make  us  feel  that  the  surrounding  matter  is  not 
radiant ; that  it  is,  in  part,  temporary,  conventional. 
Alas,  Shakspeare  had  to  write  for  the  Globe  Play- 
house : his  great  soul  had  to  crush  itself,  as  it  could, 
into  that  and  no  other  mould.  It  was  with  him,  then, 
as  it  is  with  us  all.  No  man  works  save  under  con- 
ditions. The  sculptor  cannot  set  his  own  free 
Thought  before  us ; but  his  Thought  as  he  could 
translate  it  into  the  stone  that  was  given,  with  the 
tools  that  were  given.  Disjecta  membra  are  all  that 
we  find  of  any  Poet,  or  of  any  man. 

Whoever  looks  intelligently  at  this  Shakspeare 
may  recognise  that  he  too  was  a Prophet,  in  his  way ; 
of  an  insight  analogous  to  the  Prophetic,  though  he 
took  it  up  in  another  strain.  Nature  seemed  to  this 
man  also  divine  ; unspeakable,  deep  as  Tophet,  high 
as  Heaven : ‘ We  are  such  stuff  as  Dreams  are  made 
of ! ’ That  scroll  in  Westminster  Abbey,  which  few 
read  with  understanding,  is  of  the  depth  of  any  seer. 
But  the  man  sang ; did  not  preach,  except  musically. 
We  called  Dante  the  melodious  Priest  of  Middle- 
Age  Catholicism.  May  we  not  call  Shakspeare  the 
still  more  melodious  Priest  of  a true  Catholicism, 
the  ‘Universal  Church’  of  the  Future  and  of  all 
times?  No  narrow  superstition,  harsh  asceticism, 
intolerance,  fanatical  fierceness  or  perversion:  a 
Revelation,  so  far  as  it  goes,  that  such  a thousand- 

135 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

fold  hidden  beauty  and  divineness  dwells  in  all 
Nature ; which  let  all  men  worship  as  they  can ! 
We  may  say  without  offence,  that  there  rises  a kind 
of  universal  Psalm  out  of  this  Shakspeare  too ; not 
unfit  to  make  itself  heard  among  the  still  more 
sacred  Psalms.  Not  in  disharmony  with  these,  if 
we  understood  them,  but  in  harmony ! — I cannot 
call  this  Shakspeare  a ‘ Sceptic,’  as  some  do ; his 
indifference  to  the  creeds  and  theological  quarrels 
of  his  time  misleading  them.  No : neither  unpat- 
riotic, though  he  says  little  about  his  Patriotism ; nor 
sceptic,  though  he  says  little  about  his  Faith.  Such 
‘ indifference  ’was  the  fruit  of  his  greatness  withal: 
his  whole  heart  was  in  his  own  grand  sphere  of 
worship  (we  may  call  it  such);  these  other  con- 
troversies, vitally  important  to  other  men,  were  not 
vital  to  him. 

But  call  it  worship,  call  it  what  you  will,  is  it  not 
a right  glorious  thing,  and  set  of  things,  this  that 
Shakspeare  has  brought  us  ? For  myself,  I feel  that 
there  is  actually  a kind  of  sacredness  in  the  fact  of 
such  a man  being  sent  into  this  Earth.  Is  he  not 
an  eye  to  us  all ; a blessed  heaven-sent  Bringer  of 
Light? — And,  at  bottom,  was  it  not  perhaps  far 
better  that  this  Shakspeare,  every  way  an  uncon- 
scious man,  was  conscious  of  no  Heavenly  message? 
He  did  not  feel,  like  Mahomet,  because  he  saw  into 
those  internal  Splendours,  that  he  specially  was  the 
‘Prophet  of  God’:  and  was  he  not  greater  than 
Mahomet  in  that  ? Greater ; and  also,  if  we  com- 
pute strictly,  as  we  did  in  Dante’s  case,  more  suc- 
cessful. It  was  intrinsically  an  error  that  notion  of 
Mahomet’s,  of  his  supreme  Prophethood ; and  has 
come  down  to  us  inextricably  involved  in  error  to 
this  day ; dragging  along  with  it  such  a coil  of  fables, 
impurities,  intolerances,  as  makes  it  a questionable 
136 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

step  for  me  here  and  now  to  say,  as  I have  done, 
that  Mahomet  was  a true  Speaker  at  all,  and  not 
rather  an  ambitious  charlatan,  perversity  and  simu- 
lacrum, no  Speaker,  but  a Babbler ! Even  in  Arabia, 
as  I compute,  Mahomet  will  have  exhausted  himself 
and  become  obsolete,  while  this  Shakspeare,  this 
Dante  may  still  be  young ; — while  this  Shakspeare 
may  still  pretend  to  be  a Priest  of  Mankind,  of 
Arabia  as  of  other  places,  for  unlimited  periods  to 
come ! Compared  with  any  speaker  or  singer  one 
knows,  even  with  iEschylus  or  Homer,  why  should 
he  not,  for  veracity  and  universality,  last  like  them  ? 
He  is  sincere  as  they;  reaches  deep  down  like 
them,  to  the  universal  and  perennial.  But  as  for 
Mahomet,  I think  it  had  been  better  for  him  not  to 
be  so  conscious ! Alas,  poor  Mahomet ; all  that 
he  was  conscious  of  was  a mere  error;  a futility 
and  triviality, — as  indeed  such  ever  is.  The  truly 
great  in  him  too  was  the  unconscious  : that  he  was 
a wild  Arab  lion  of  the  desert,  and  did  speak-out 
with  that  great  thunder- voice  of  his,  not  by  words 
which  he  thought  to  be  great,  but  by  actions,  by 
feelings,  by  a history  which  were  great ! His  Koran 
has  become  a stupid  piece  of  prolix  absurdity ; we 
do  not  believe,  like  him,  that  God  wrote  that ! 
The  Great  Man  here  too,  as  always,  is  a Force  of 
Nature  : whatsoever  is  truly  great  in  him  springs- 
up  from  the  marticulate  deeps. 

Well : this  is  our  poor  Warwickshire  Peasant,  who 
rose  to  be  Manager  of  a Playhouse,  so  that  he  could 
live  without  begging;  whom  the  Earl  of  South- 
ampton cast  some  kind  glances  on ; whom  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy,  many  thanks  to  him,  was  for  sending 
to  the  Treadmill ! We  did  not  account  him  a god, 
like  Odin,  while  he  dwelt  with  us  ; — on  which  point 

137 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

there  were  much  to  be  said.  But  I will  say  rather, 
or  repeat : In  spite  of  the  sad  state  Hero-worship 
now  lies  in,  consider  what  this  Shakspeare  has 
actually  become  among  us.  Which  Englishman  we 
ever  made,  in  this  land  of  ours,  which  million  of 
Englishmen,  would  we  not  give-up  rather  than 
the  Stratford  Peasant?  There  is  no  regiment  of 
highest  Dignitaries  that  we  would  sell  him  for.  He 
is  the  grandest  thing  we  have  yet  done.  For  our 
honour  among  foreign  nations,  as  an  ornament  to 
our  English  Household,  what  item  is  there  that  we 
would  not  surrender  rather  than  him  ? Consider 
now,  if  they  asked  us.  Will  you  give-up  your  Indian 
Empire  or  your  Shakspeare,  you  English;  never 
have  had  any  Indian  Empire,  or  never  have  had 
any  Shakspeare  ? Really  it  were  a grave  question. 
Official  persons  would  answer  doubtless  In  official 
language  ; but  we,  for  our  part  too,  should  not  we 
be  forced  to  answer  : Indian  Empire,  or  no  Indian 
Empire ; we  cannot  do  without  Shakspeare  ! In- 
dian Empire  will  go,  at  any  rate,  some  day ; but 
this  Shakspeare  does  not  go,  he  lasts  forever  with 
us  ; we  cannot  give-up  our  Shakspeare  ! 

Nay,  apart  from  spiritualities  ; and  considering 
him  merely  as  a real,  marketable,  tangibly-useful 
possession.  England,  before  long,  this  Island  of 
ours,  will  hold  but  a small  fraction  of  the  English : 
In  America,  In  New  Holland,  east  and  west  to  the 
very  Antipodes,  there  will  be  a Saxondom  covering 
great  spaces  of  the  Globe.  And  now,  what  is  it 
that  can  keep  all  these  together  into  virtually  one 
Nation,  so  that  they  do  not  fall-out  and  fight,  but 
live  at  peace,  in  brotherlike  intercourse,  helping 
one  another?  This  is  justly  regarded  as  the  greatest 
practical  problem,  the  thing  all  manner  of  sove- 
reignties and  governments  are  here  to  accomplish : 
138 


THE  HERO  AS  POET 

what  Is  it  that  will  accomplish  this  ? Acts  of 
Parliament,  administrative  prime- ministers  cannot. 
America  is  parted  from  us,  so  far  as  Parliament 
could  part  It.  Gall  it  not  fantastic,  for  there  is 
much  reality  in  it : Here,  I say,  is  an  English  King, 
whom  no  time  or  chance.  Parliament  or  combination 
of  Parliaments,  can  dethrone  ! This  King  Shak- 
speare,  does  not  he  shine,  in  crowned  sovereignty, 
over  us  all,  as  the  noblest,  gentlest,  yet  strongest  of 
rallying- signs ; indestructible;  really  more  valuable 
in  that  point  of  view,  than  any  other  means  or 
appliance  whatsoever  ? We  can  fancy  him  as 
radiant  aloft  over  all  the  Nations  of  Englishmen,  a 
thousand  years  hence.  F rom  Paramatta,  from  New 
York,  wheresoever,  under  what  sort  of  Parish-Con- 
stable soever,  English  men  and  women  are,  they 
will  say  to  one  another:  ‘‘Yes,  this  Shakspeare 
is  ours ; we  produced  him,  we  speak  and  think  by 
him  ; we  are  of  one  blood  and  kind  with  him.”  The 
most  common-sense  politician,  too,  if  he  pleases, 
may  think  of  that. 

Yes,  truly,  it  is  a great  thing  for  a Nation  that  it 
get  an  articulate  voice  ; that  It  produce  a man  who 
will  speak-forth  melodiously  what  the  heart  of  it 
means  ! Italy,  for  example,  poor  Italy  lies  dis- 
membered, scattered  asunder,  not  appearing  In  any 
protocol  or  treaty  as  a unity  at  all ; yet  the  noble 
Italy  is  actually  one:  Italy  produced  its  Dante; 
Italy  can  speak ! The  Czar  of  all  the  Russias,  he 
is  strong,  with  so  many  bayonets,  Cossacks  and 
cannons ; and  does  a great  feat  In  keeping  such  a 
tract  of  Earth  politically  together ; but  he  cannot 
yet  speak.  Something  great  in  him,  but  it  is  a dumb 
greatness.  He  has  had  no  voice  of  genius,  to  be 
heard  of  all  men  and  times.  He  must  learn  to 
speak.  He  is  a great  dumb  monster  hitherto.  His 

139 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

cannons  and  Cossacks  will  all  have  rusted  into 
nonentity,  while  that  Dante’s  voice  is  still  audible. 
The  Nation  that  has  a Dante  is  bound  together  as 
no  dumb  Russia  can  be. — We  must  here  end  what 
we  had  to  say  of  the  Hero-Poet. 


140 


LECTURE  FOUR 

THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST. 
LUTHER;  KNOX; 
REFORMATION : PURITANISM 

Friday,  15th  May,  1840 


LECTURE  IV.  THE  HERO 
AS  PRIEST 

OUR  present  discourse  is  to  be  of  the  Great 
Man  as  Priest,  We  have  repeatedly  en- 
deavoured to  explain  that  all  sorts  of 
Heroes  are  intrinsically  of  the  same 
material ; that  given  a great  soul,  open  to  the  Divine 
Significance  of  Life,  then  there  is  given  a man  fit 
to  speak  of  this,  to  sing  of  this,  to  fight  and  work 
for  this,  in  a great,  victorious,  enduring  manner ; 
there  is  given  a Hero, — the  outward  shape  of  whom 
will  depend  on  the  time  and  the  environment  he 
finds  himself  in.  The  Priest  too,  as  I understand  it, 
is  a kind  of  Prophet ; in  him  too  there  is  required 
to  be  a light  of  inspiration,  as  we  must  name  it.  He 
presides  over  the  worship  of  the  people  ; is  the 
Uniter  of  them  with  the  Unseen  Holy.  He  is  the 
spiritual  Captain  of  the  people ; as  the  Prophet  is 
their  spiritual  King  with  many  captains : he  guides 
them  heavenward,  by  wise  guidance  through  this 
Earth  and  its  work.  The  ideal  of  him  is,  that  he 
too  be  what  we  can  call  a voice  from  the  unseen 
Heaven ; interpreting,  even  as  the  Prophet  did,  and 
in  a more  familiar  manner  unfolding  the  same  to 
men.  The  unseen  Heaven, — the  ‘open  secret  of  the 
Universe,’ — which  so  few  have  an  eye  for ! He  is 
the  Prophet  shorn  of  his  more  awful  splendour; 
burning  with  mild  equable  radiance,  as  the  en- 
lightener of  daily  life.  This,  I say,  is  the  ideal  of  a 
Priest.  So  in  old  times ; so  in  these,  and  in  all  times. 
One  knows  very  well  that,  in  reducing  ideals  to 
practice,  great  latitude  of  tolerance  is  needful;  very 
great.  But  a Priest  who  is  not  this  at  all,  who  does 
not  any  longer  aim  or  try  to  be  this,  is  a character — 
of  whom  we  had  rather  not  speak  in  this  place. 
Luther  and  Knox  were  by  express  vocation 

143 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Priests,  and  did  faithfully  perform  that  function  in 
its  common  sense.  Yet  it  will  suit  us  better  here  to 
consider  them  chiefly  in  their  historical  character, 
rather  as  Reformers  than  Priests.  There  have  been 
other  Priests  perhaps  equally  notable,  in  calmer 
times,  for  doing  faithfully  the  office  of  a Leader  of 
Worship;  bringing  down,  by  faithful  heroism  in 
that  kind,  a light  from  Heaven  into  the  daily  life 
of  their  people;  leading  them  forward,  as  under 
God’s  guidance,  in  the  way  wherein  they  were  to 
go.  But  when  this  same  way  was  a rough  one,  of 
battle,  confusion  and  danger,  the  spiritual  Captain 
who  led  through  that,  becomes,  especially  to  us  who 
live  under  the  fruit  of  his  leading,  more  notable  than 
any  other.  He  is  the  warfaring  and  battling  Priest ; 
who  led  his  people,  not  to  quiet  faithful  labour  as 
in  smooth  times,  but  to  faithful  valorous  conflict, 
in  times  all  violent,  dismembered : a more  perilous 
service,  a more  memorable  one,  be  it  higher  or  not. 
These  two  men  we  will  account  our  best  Priests, 
inasmuch  as  they  were  our  best  Reformers.  Nay 
I may  ask.  Is  not  every  true  Reformer,  by  the 
nature  of  him,  a Priest  first  of  all  ? He  appeals  to 
Heaven’s  invisible  justice  against  Earth’s  visible 
force ; knows  that  it,  the  invisible,  is  strong  and 
alone  strong.  He  is  a believer  in  the  divine  truth  of 
things  ; a seer,  seeing  through  the  shows  of  things ; a 
worshiper,  in  one  way  or  the  other,  of  the  divine  truth 
of  things ; a Priest,  that  is.  If  he  be  not  first  a Priest, 
he  will  never  be  good  for  much  as  a Reformer. 

Thus  then,  as  we  have  seen  Great  Men,  in  various 
situations,  building-up  Religions,  heroic  Forms  of 
human  Existence  in  this  world,  Theories  of  Life 
worthy  to  be  sung  by  a Dante,  Practices  of  Life  by 
a Shakspeare, — we  are  now  to  see  the  reverse  pro- 
cess ; which  also  is  necessary,  which  also  may  be 
144 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

carried-on  in  the  Heroic  manner.  Curious  how  this 
should  be  necessary ; yet  necessary  it  is.  The  mild 
shining  of  the  Poet’s  light  has  to  give  place  to  the 
fierce  lightning  of  the  Reformer : unfortunately  the 
Reformer  too  is  a personage  that  cannot  fail  in  His- 
tory ! The  Poet  indeed,  with  his  mildness,  what  is 
he  but  the  product  and  ultimate  adjustment  of  Re- 
form, or  Prophecy,  with  its  fierceness  ? No  wild 
Saint  Dominies  and  Thebaid  Eremites,  there  had 
been  no  melodious  Dante ; rough  Practical  Endea- 
vour, Scandinavian  and  other,  from  Odin  to  Walter 
Raleigh,  from  Ulfila  to  Cranmer,  enabled  Shak- 
speare  to  speak.  Nay  the  finished  Poet,  I remark 
sometimes,  is  a symptom  that  his  epoch  itself  has 
reached  perfection  and  is  finished ; that  before  long 
there  will  be  a new  epoch,  new  Reformers  needed. 

Doubtless  it  were  finer,  could  we  go  along  always 
in  the  way  of  music;  be  tamed  and  taught  by  our 
Poets,  as  the  rude  creatures  were  by  their  Orpheus 
of  old.  Or  failing  this  rhythmic  musical  way,  how 
good  were  it  could  we  get  so  much  as  into  the 
equable  way ; I mean,  if  peaceable  Priests,  reforming 
from  day  to  day,  would  always  suffice  us  ! But  it 
is  not  so  ; even  this  latter  has  not  yet  been  realised. 
Alas,  the  battling  Reformer  too  is,  from  time  to 
time,  a needful  and  inevitable  phenomenon.  Ob- 
structions are  never  wanting : the  very  things  that 
were  once  indispensable  furtherances  become  ob- 
structions; and  need  to  be  shaken-off,  and  left 
behind  us, — a business  often  of  enormous  diffi- 
culty. It  is  notable  enough,  surely,  how  a Theorem 
or  spiritual  Representation,  so  we  may  call  it, 
which  once  took-in  the  whole  Universe,  and  was 
completely  satisfactory  in  all  parts  of  it  to  the 
highly-discursive  acute  intellect  of  Dante,  one  of 
the  greatest  in  the  world, — had  in  the  course  of 
k 145 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

another  century  become  dubitable  to  common  intel- 
lects ; become  deniable ; and  is  now,  to  every  one 
of  us,  flatly  incredible,  obsolete  as  Odin’s  Theorem  ! 
To  Dante,  human  Existence,  and  God’s  ways  with 
men,  were  all  well  represented  by  those  Malebolges, 
Purgatorios  ; to  Luther  not  well.  How  was  this  ? 
Why  could  not  Dante’s  Catholicism  continue  ; but 
Luther’s  Protestantism  must  needs  follow  ? Alas, 
nothing  will  continue. 

I do  not  make  much  of  ‘ Progress  of  the  Species,’ 
as  handled  in  these  times  of  ours ; nor  do  I think 
you  would  care  to  hear  much  about  it.  The  talk 
on  that  subject  i®  too  often  of  the  most  extravagant, 
confused  sort.  Yet  I may  say,  the  fact  itself  seems 
certain  enough ; nay  we  can  trace-out  the  inevitable 
necessity  of  it  in  the  nature  of  things.  Every  man, 
as  I have  stated  somewhere,  is  not  only  a learner 
but  a doer:  he  learns  with  the  mind  given  him 
what  has  been ; but  with  the  same  mind  he  dis- 
covers farther,  he  invents  and  devises  somewhat  of 
his  own.  Absolutely  without  originality  there  is  no 
man.  No  man  whatever  believes,  or  can  believe, 
exactly  what  his  grandfather  believed : he  en- 
larges somewhat,  by  fresh  discovery,  his  view  of 
the  Universe,  and  consequently  his  Theorem  of  the 
Universe, — which  is  an  infinite  Universe,  and  can 
never  be  embraced  wholly  or  finally  by  any  view 
or  Theorem,  in  any  conceivable  enlargement : he 
enlarges  somewhat,  I say ; finds  somewhat  that  was 
credible  to  his  grandfather  incredible  to  him,  false 
to  him,  inconsistent  with  some  new  thing  he  has  dis- 
covered or  observed.  It  is  the  history  of  every  man , 
and  in  the  history  of  Mankind  we  see  it  summed- 
upinto  great  historical  amounts, — revolutions,  new 
epochs.  Dante’s  Mountain  of  Purgatory  does  not 
stand  ‘ in  the  ocean  of  the  other  Hemisphere,’  when 
146 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

Columbus  has  once  sailed  thither!  Men  find  no 
such  thing  extant  in  the  other  Hemisphere.  It  is 
not  there.  It  must  cease  to  be  believed  to  be  there. 
So  with  all  beliefs  whatsoever  in  this  world, — all 
Systems  of  Belief,  and  Systems  of  Practice  that 
spring  from  these. 

If  we  add  now  the  melancholy  fact  that  when 
Belief  waxes  uncertain.  Practice  too  becomes  un- 
sound, and  errors,  injustices  and  miseries  every- 
where more  and  more  prevail,  we  shall  see  material 
enough  for  revolution.  At  all  turns,  a man  who  will 
do  faithfully,  needs  to  believe  firmly.  If  he  have  to 
ask  at  every  turn  the  world’s  suffrage ; if  he  cannot 
dispense  with  the  world’s  suffrage,  and  make  his  own 
suffrage  serve,  he  is  a poor  eye-servant ; the  work 
committed  to  him  will  be  misdone.  Every  such  man 
is  a daily  contributor  to  the  inevitable  downfall. 
Whatsoever  work  he  does,  dishonestly,  with  an  eye 
to  the  outward  look  of  it,  is  a new  offence,  parent 
of  new  misery  to  somebody  or  other.  Offences 
accumulate  till  they  become  insupportable;  and 
are  then  violently  burst  through,  cleared-off  as  by 
explosion.  Dante’s  sublime  Catholicism,  incredible 
now  in  theory,  and  defaced  still  worse  by  faithless, 
doubting  and  dishonest  practice,  has  to  be  torn 
asunder  by  a Luther  ; Shakspeare’s  noble  Feudal- 
ism, as  beautiful  as  it  once  looked  and  was,  has  to 
end  in  a French  Revolution.  The  accumulation  of 
offences  is,  as  we  say,  too  literally  exploded,  blasted 
asunder  volcanically ; and  there  are  long  troublous 
periods,  before  matters  come  to  a settlement  again. 

Surely  it  were  mournful  enough  to  look  only  at 
this  face  of  the  matter,  and  find  in  all  human  opinions 
and  arrangements  merely  the  fact  that  they  were 
uncertain,  temporary,  subject  to  the  law  of  death  ! 
At  bottom,  it  is  not  so  ; all  death,  here  too  we  find, 

147 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

is  but  of  the  body,  not  of  the  essence  or  soul ; all 
destruction,  by  violent  revolution  or  howsoever  it 
be,  is  but  new  creation  on  a wider  scale.  Odinism 
was  Valour;  Ghristianism  was  a nobler  kind 

of  Valour.  No  thought  that  ever  dwelt  honestly  as 
true  in  the  heart  of  man  but  was  an  honest  insight 
into  God^s  truth  on  man’s  part,  and  has  an  essential 
truth  in  it  which  endures  through  all  changes,  an 
everlasting  possession  for  us  all.  And,  on  the  other 
hand,  what  a melancholy  notion  is  that,  which  has 
to  represent  all  men,  in  all  countries  and  times 
except  our  own,  as  having  spent  their  life  in  blind 
condemnable  error,  mere  lost  Pagans,  Scandina- 
vians, Mahometans,  only  that  we  might  have  the 
true  ultimate  knowledge  ! All  generations  of  men 
were  lost  and  wrong,  only  that  this  present  little 
section  of  a generation  might  be  saved  and  right. 
They  all  marched  forward  there,  all  generations 
since  the  beginning  of  the  world,  like  the  Russian 
soldiers  into  the  ditch  of  Schweidnitz  Fort,  only  to 
fill-up  the  ditch  with  their  dead  bodies,  that  we 
might  march-over  and  take  the  place  ! It  is  an 
incredible  hypothesis. 

Such  incredible  hypothesis  we  have  seen  main- 
tained with  fierce  emphasis ; and  this  or  the  other 
poor  individual  man,  with  his  sect  of  individual  men, 
marching  as  over  the  dead  bodies  of  all  men,  towards 
sure  victory  ; but  when  he  too,  with  his  hypothesis 
and  ultimate  infallible  credo,  sank  into  the  ditch, 
and  became  a dead  body,  what  was  to  be  said  ? — 
Withal,  it  is  an  important  fact  in  the  nature  of  man, 
that  he  tends  to  reckon  his  own  insight  as  final,  and 
goes  upon  it  as  such.  He  will  always  do  it,  I suppose, 
in  one  or  the  other  way ; but  it  must  be  in  some 
wider,  wiser  way  than  this.  Are  not  all  true  men 
that  live,  or  that  ever  lived,  soldiers  of  the  same 
148 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

army,  enlisted,  under  Heaven’s  captaincy,  to  do 
battle  against  the  same  enemy,  the  empire  of 
Darkness  and  Wrong?  Why  should  we  misknow 
one  another,  fight  not  against  the  enemy  but  against 
ourselves,  from  mere  difference  of  uniform  ? All 
uniforms  shall  be  good,  so  they  hold  in  them  true 
valiant  men.  All  fashions  of  arms,  the  Arab  turban 
and  swift  scimetar,  Thor’s  strong  hammer  smiting 
down  J ’tuns,  shall  be  welcome.  Luther’s  battle- 
voice,  Dante’s  march-melody,  all  genuine  things 
are  with  us,  not  against  us.  We  are  all  under  one 
Captain,  soldiers  of  the  same  host. — Let  us  now 
look  a little  at  this  Luther’s  fighting ; what  kind  of 
battle  it  was,  and  how  he  comported  himself  in  it. 
Luther  too  was  of  our  spiritual  Heroes ; a Prophet 
to  his  country  and  time. 

As  introductory  to  the  whole,  a remark  about 
Idolatry  will  perhaps  be  in  place  here.  One  of  Ma- 
homet’s characteristics,  which  indeed  belongs  to  all 
Prophets,  is  unlimited  implacable  zeal  against  Ido- 
latry. It  is  the  grand  theme  of  Prophets  : Idolatry, 
the  worshiping  of  dead  Idols  as  the  Divinity,  is  a thing 
they  cannot  away-with,  but  have  to  denounce  con- 
tinually, and  brand  with  inexpiable  reprobation ; it 
is  the  chief  of  all  the  sins  they  see  done  under  the 
sun.  This  is  worth  noting.  We  will  not  enter  here 
into  the  theological  question  about  Idolatry.  Idol 
is  Eidolon,  a thing  seen,  a symbol.  It  is  not  God,  but 
a Symbol  of  God ; and  perhaps  one  may  question 
whether  any  the  most  benighted  mortal  ever  took 
it  for  more  than  a Symbol.  I fancy,  he  did  not  think 
that  the  poor  image  his  own  hands  had  made  was 
God ; but  that  God  was  emblemed  by  it,  that  God 
was  in  it  some  way  or  other.  And  now  in  this  sense, 
one  may  ask,  Is  not  all  worship  whatsoever  a worship 

149 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

by  Symbols,  by  eidola,  or  things  seen?  Whether 
seen,  rendered  visible  as  an  image  or  picture  to  the 
bodily  eye ; or  visible  only  to  the  inward  eye,  to  the 
imagination,  to  the  intellect : this  makes  a superficial, 
but  no  substantial  difference.  It  is  still  a Thing  Seen, 
significant  of  Godhead ; an  Idol.  The  most  rigorous 
Puritan  has  his  Confession  of  Faith,  and  intellectual 
Representation  of  Divine  things,  and  worships  there- 
by ; thereby  is  worship  first  made  possible  for  him. 
All  creeds,  liturgies,  religious  forms,  conceptions 
that  fitly  invest  religious  feelings,  are  in  this  sense 
eidola,  things  seen.  All  worship  whatsoever  must 
proceed  by  Symbols,  by  Idols : — we  may  say,  all 
Idolatry  is  comparative,  and  the  worst  Idolatry  is 
only  more  idolatrous. 

Where  then  lies  the  evil  of  it  ? Some  fatal  evil 
must  lie  in  it,  or  earnest  prophetic  men  would  not 
on  all  hands  so  reprobate  it.  Why  is  Idolatry  so 
hateful  to  Prophets  ? It  seems  to  me  as  if,  in  the 
worship  of  those  poor  wooden  symbols,  the  thing 
that  had  chiefly  provoked  the  Prophet,  and  filled  his 
inmost  soul  with  indignation  and  aversion,  was  not 
exactly  what  suggested  itself  to  his  own  thought,  and 
came  out  of  him  in  words  to  others,  as  the  thing. 
The  rudest  heathen  that  worshiped  Canopus,  or  the 
Caabah  Black- Stone,  he,  as  we  saw,  was  superior  to 
the  horse  that  worshiped  nothing  at  all ! Nay  there 
was  a kind  of  lasting  merit  in  that  poor  act  of  his ; 
analogous  to  what  is  still  meritorious  in  Poets : re- 
cognition of  a certain  endless  divine  beauty  and 
significance  in  stars  and  all  natural  objects  whatso- 
ever. Why  should  the  Prophet  so  mercilessly  con- 
demn him?  The  poorest  mortal  worshiping  his 
Fetish,  while  his  heart  is  full  of  it,  may  be  an  object 
of  pity,  of  contempt  and  avoidance,  if  you  will ; but 
cannot  surely  be  an  object  of  hatred.  Let  his  heart 
150 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

he  honestly  full  of  it,  the  whole  space  of  his  dark 
narrow  mind  illuminated  thereby ; in  one  word,  let 
him  entirely  believe  in  his  Fetish, — it  will  then  be,  I 
should  say,  if  not  well  with  him,  yet  as  well  as  it  can 
readily  be  made  to  be,  and  you  will  leave  him  alone, 
unmolested  there. 

But  here  enters  the  fatal  circumstance  of  Idola- 
try, that,  in  the  era  of  the  Prophets,  no  man’s  mind 
is  any  longer  honestly  filled  with  his  Idol  or  Symbol. 
Before  the  Prophet  can  arise  who,  seeing  through  it, 
knows  it  to  be  mere  wood,  many  men  must  have 
begun  dimly  to  doubt  that  it  was  little  more.  Gon- 
demnable  Idolatry  is  insincere  Idolatry.  Doubt  has 
eaten-out  the  heart  of  it : a human  soul  is  seen  cling- 
ing spasmodically  to  an  Ark  of  the  Covenant,  which 
it  half-feels  now  to  have  become  a Phantasm.  This 
is  one  of  the  balefullest  sights.  Souls  are  no  longer 
filled  with  their  Fetish  ; but  only  pretend  to  be  filled, 
and  would  fain  make  themselves  feel  that  the^  are 
filled.  ‘‘  You  do  not  believe,”  said  Coleridge ; ‘ you 
only  believe  that  you  believe.”  It  is  the  final  scene 
in  all  kinds  of  Worship  and  Symbolism ; the  sure 
symptom  that  death  is  now  nigh.  It  is  equivalent  to 
what  we  call  Formulism,  and  Worship  of  Formulas, 
in  these  days  of  ours.  No  more  immoral  act  can  be 
done  by  a human  creature  ; for  it  is  the  beginning  of 
all  immorality,  or  rather  it  is  the  impossibility  hence- 
forth of  any  morality  whatsoever : the  innermost 
moral  soul  is  paralysed  thereby,  cast  into  fatal  mag- 
netic sleep ! Men  are  no  longer  sincere  men.  I do 
not  wonder  that  the  earnest  man  denounces  this, 
brands  it,  prosecutes  it  with  inextinguishable  aver- 
sion. He  and  it,  all  good  and  it,  are  at  death-feud. 
Blamable  Idolatry  is  Cant,  and  even  what  one  may 
call  Sincere-Cant.  Sincere-Cants  that  is  worth 
thinking  of!  Every  sort  of  Worship  ends  with  this 

151 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

phasis. — I find  Luther  to  have  been  a Breaker  of 
Idols,  no  less  than  any  other  Prophet.  The  wooden 
gods  of  the  Koreish,  made  of  timber  and  bees- wax, 
were  not  more  hateful  to  Mahomet  than  Tetzel’s 
Pardons  of  Sin,  made  of  sheepskin  and  ink,  were  to 
Luther.  It  is  the  property  of  every  Hero,  in  every 
time,  in  every  place  and  situation,  that  he  come 
back  to  reality ; that  he  stand  upon  things,  and  not 
shows  of  things.  According  as  he  loves,  and  vene- 
rates, articulately  or  with  deep  speechless  thought, 
the  awful  realities  of  things,  so  will  the  hollow  shows 
of  things,  however  regular,  decorous,  accredited  by 
Koreishes  or  Conclaves,  be  intolerable  and  detest- 
able to  him.  Protestantism  too  is  the  work  of  a 
Prophet : the  prophet-work  of  that  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. The  first  stroke  of  honest  demolition  to  an 
ancient  thing  grown  false  and  idolatrous  ; prepara- 
tory afar  off  to  a new  thing,  which  shall  be  true,  and 
authentically  divine  ! — 

At  first  view  it  might  seem  as  if  Protestantism 
were  entirely  destructive  to  this  that  we  call  Hero- 
worship,  and  represent  as  the  basis  of  all  possible 
good,  religious  or  social,  for  mankind.  One  often 
hears  it  said  that  Protestantism  introduced  a new 
era,  radically  different  from  any  the  world  had  ever 
seen  before : the  era  of  ‘ private  judgment,’  as  they 
call  it.  By  this  revolt  against  the  Pope,  every  man 
became  his  own  Pope;  and  learnt,  among  other 
things,  that  he  must  never  trust  any  Pope,  or 
spiritual  Hero-captain,  any  more  ! Whereby,  is  not 
spiritual  union,  all  hierarchy  and  subordination 
among  men,  henceforth  an  impossibility?  So  we 
hear  it  said. — Now  I need  not  deny  that  Protest- 
antism was  a revolt  against  spiritual  sovereignties. 
Popes  and  much  else.  Nay  I will  grant  that  Eng- 
lish Puritanism,  revolt  against  earthly  sovereignties, 
152 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

was  the  second  act  of  it ; that  the  enormous  French 
Revolution  itself  was  the  third  act,  whereby  all 
sovereignties  earthly  and  spiritual  were,  as  might 
seem,  abolished  or  made  sure  of  abolition.  Pro- 
testantism is  the  grand  root  from  which  our  whole 
subsequent  European  History  branches-out.  For 
the  spiritual  will  always  body  itself  forth  in  the  tem- 
poral history  of  men  ; the  spiritual  is  the  beginning 
of  the  temporal.  And  now,  sure  enough,  the  cry  is 
everywhere  for  Liberty  and  Equality,  Indepen- 
dence and  so  forth  ; instead  of  Kings,  Ballot-boxes 
and  Electoral  suffrages:  it  seems  made  out  that 
any  Hero-sovereign,  or  loyal  obedience  of  men  to 
a man,  in  things  temporal  or  things  spiritual,  has 
passed  away  forever  from  the  world.  I should 
despair  of  the  world  altogether,  if  so.  One  of  my 
deepest  convictions  is,  that  it  is  not  so.  Without 
sovereigns,  true  sovereigns,  temporal  and  spiritual, 
I see  nothing  possible  but  an  anarchy ; the  hate- 
fullest  of  things.  But  I find  Protestantism,  what- 
ever anarchic  democracy  it  have  produced,  to  be  the 
beginning  of  new  genuine  sovereignty  and  order. 
I find  it  to  be  a revolt  against  false  sovereigns ; the 
painful  but  indispensable  first  preparative  for  true 
sovereigns  getting  place  among  us ! This  is  worth 
explaining  a little. 

Let  us  remark,  therefore,  in  the  first  place,  that 
this  of  ‘ private  judgment  ’ is,  at  bottom,  not  a 
new  thing  in  the  world,  but  only  new  at  that  epoch 
of  the  world.  There  is  nothing  generically  new  or 
peculiar  in  the  Reformation ; it  was  a return  to  Truth 
and  Reality  in  opposition  to  Falsehood  and  Sem- 
blance, as  all  kinds  of  Improvement  and  genuine 
Teaching  are  and  have  been.  Liberty  of  private 
judgment,  if  we  will  consider  it,  must  at  all  times 
have  existed  in  the  world.  Dante  had  not  put-out 

153 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

his  eyes,  or  tied  shackles  on  himself ; he  was  at  home 
in  that  Catholicism  of  his,  a free-seeing  soul  In  It, — 
if  many  a poor  Hogstraten,  Tetzel  and  Dr.  Eck  had 
now  become  slaves  in  it.  Liberty  of  judgment  ? No 
iron  chain,  or  outward  force  of  any  kind,  could  ever 
compel  the  soul  of  a man  to  believe  or  to  disbelieve : 
it  is  his  own  indefeasible  light,  that  judgment  of  his  ; 
he  will  reign,  and  believe  there,  by  the  grace  of  God 
alone  ! The  sorriest  sophistical  Bellarmlne,  preach- 
ing sightless  faith  and  passive  obedience,  must  first, 
by  some  kind  of  conviction,  have  abdicated  his  right 
to  be  convinced.  His  ‘ private  judgment’  indicated 
that,  as  the  advisablest  step  he  could  take.  The  right 
of  private  judgment  will  subsist,  in  full  force,  wher- 
ever true  men  subsist.  A true  man  believes  with  his 
whole  judgment,  with  all  the  illumination  and  dis- 
cernment that  is  in  him,  and  has  always  so  believed. 
A false  man,  only  struggling  to  ‘ believe  that  he  be- 
lieves,’will  naturally  manage  it  in  some  other  way. 
Protestantism  said  to  this  latter.  Woe ! and  to  the 
former.  Well  done  ! At  bottom,  it  was  no  new  say- 
ing ; it  was  a return  to  all  old  sayings  that  ever  had 
been  said.  Be  genuine,  be  sincere : that  was,  once 
more,  the  meaning  of  it.  Mahomet  believed  with 
his  whole  mind ; Odin  with  his  whole  mind, — he, 
and  all  true  Followers  of  Odinism.  They,  by  their 
private  judgment,  had  ‘judged’ — so. 

And  now  I venture  to  assert,  that  the  exercise  of 
private  judgment,  faithfully  gone  about,  does  by  no 
means  necessarily  end  in  selfish  Independence,  iso- 
lation ; but  rather  ends  necessarily  in  the  opposite 
of  that.  It  is  not  honest  Inquiry  that  makes  anarchy  ; 
but  it  is  error,  insincerity,  half-belief  and  untruth 
that  makes  it.  A man  protesting  against  error  is 
on  the  way  towards  uniting  himself  with  all  men 
that  believe  in  truth.  There  is  no  communion 

154 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

possible  among  men  who  believe  only  in  hearsays. 
The  heart  of  each  is  lying  dead ; has  no  power  of 
sympathy  even  with  things^ — or  he  would  believe 
them  and  not  hearsays.  No  sympathy  even  with 
things ; how  much  less  with  his  fellow- men ! He 
cannot  unite  with  men ; he  is  an  anarchic  man.  Only 
in  a world  of  sincere  men  is  unity  possible ; — and 
there,  in  the  long  run,  it  is  as  good  as  certain. 

For  observe  one  thing,  a thing  too  often  left  out 
of  view,  or  rather  altogether  lost  sight  of,  in  this 
controversy : That  it  is  not  necessary  a man  should 
himself  have  discovered  the  truth  he  is  to  believe  in, 
and  never  so  sincerely  to  believe  in.  A Great  Man, 
we  said,  was  always  sincere,  as  the  first  condition 
of  him.  But  a man  need  not  be  great  in  order  to 
be  sincere ; that  is  not  the  necessity  of  Nature  and 
all  Time,  but  only  of  certain  corrupt  unfortunate 
epochs  of  Time.  A man  can  believe,  and  make  his 
own,  in  the  most  genuine  way,  what  he  has  received 
from  another; — and  with  boundless  gratitude  to 
that  other ! The  merit  of  originality  is  not  novelty ; 
it  is  sincerity.  The  believing  man  is  the  original 
man ; whatsoever  he  believes,  he  believes  it  for 
himself,  not  for  another.  Every  son  of  Adam  can 
become  a sincere  man,  an  original  man,  in  this 
sense;  no  mortal  is  doomed  to  be  an  insincere 
man.  Whole  ages,  what  we  call  ages  of  Faith,  are 
original, — all  men  in  them,  or  the  most  of  men  in 
them,  sincere.  These  are  the  great  and  fruitful 
ages : every  worker,  in  all  spheres,  is  a worker  not 
on  semblance  but  on  substance ; every  work  issues 
in  a result : the  general  sum  of  such  work  is  great ; 
for  all  of  it,  as  genuine,  tends  towards  one  goal ; 
all  of  it  is  additive,  none  of  it  subtractive.  There 
is  true  union,  true  kingship,  loyalty,  all  true  and 
blessed  things,  so  far  as  the  poor  Earth  can  produce 

155 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

blessedness  for  men.  Hero-worship  ? Ah  me,  that 
a man  be  self-subsistent,  original,  true,  or  what 
we  call  it,  is  surely  the  farthest  in  the  world  from 
indisposing  him  to  reverence  and  believe  other 
men’s  truth ! It  only  disposes,  necessitates  and 
invincibly  compels  him  to  disbelieve  other  men’s 
dead  formulas,  hearsays  and  untruths.  A man  em- 
braces truth  with  his  eyes  open,  and  because  his 
eyes  are  open : does  he  need  to  shut  them  before 
he  can  love  his  Teacher  of  truth?  He  alone  can 
love,  with  a right  gratitude  and  genuine  loyalty  of 
soul,  the  Hero-Teacher  who  has  delivered  him  out 
of  darkness  into  light.  Is  not  such  a one  a true 
Hero,  and  Serpent- queller;  worthy  of  all  rever- 
ence! The  black  monster,  Falsehood,  our  one 
enemy  in  this  world,  lies  prostrate  by  his  valour ; 
it  was  he  that  conquered  the  world  for  us ! — See, 
accordingly,  was  not  Luther  himself  reverenced  as 
a true  Pope,  or  Spiritual  Father,  being werWy  such? 
Napoleon,  from  amid  boundless  revolt  of  Sanscu- 
lottism,  became  a King.  Hero-worship  never  dies, 
nor  can  die.  Loyalty  and  Sovereignty  are  ever- 
lasting in  the  world : — and  there  is  this  in  them, 
that  they  are  grounded  not  on  garnitures  and  sem- 
blances, but  on  realities  and  sincerities.  Not  by 
shutting  your  eyes,  your  ‘private  judgment;’  no, 
but  by  opening  them,  and  by  having  something  to 
see ! Luther’s  message  was  deposition  and  aboli- 
tion to  all  false  Popes  and  Potentates,  but  life  and 
strength,  though  afar  off,  to  new  genuine  ones. 

All  this  of  Liberty  and  Equality,  Electoral  suf- 
frages, Independence  and  so  forth,  we  will  take, 
therefore,  to  be  a temporary  phenomenon,  by  no 
means  a final  one.  Though  likely  to  last  a long 
time,  with  sad  enough  embroilments  for  us  all,  we 
must  welcome  it,  as  the  penalty  of  sins  that  are 
156 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

past,  the  pledge  of  inestimable  benefits  that  are 
coming.  In  all  ways,  it  behoved  men  to  quit  simu- 
lacra and  return  to  fact ; cost  what  it  might,  that 
did  behove  to  be  done.  With  spurious  Popes,  and 
Believers  having  no  private  judgment, — quacks 
pretending  to  command  over  dupes, — what  can  you 
do?  Misery  and  mischief  only.  You  cannot  make 
an  association  out  of  insincere  men ; you  cannot 
build  an  edifice  except  by  plummet  and  level, — at 
n^/it-angles  to  one  another ! In  all  this  wild  revolu- 
tionary work,  from  Protestantism  downwards,  I 
see  the  blessedest  result  preparing  itself : not  abo- 
lition of  Hero-worship,  but  rather  what  I would 
call  a whole  World  of  Heroes.  If  Hero  mean 
sincere  man,  why  may  not  every  one  of  us  be  a 
Hero  ? A world  all  sincere,  a believing  world : the 
like  has  been ; the  like  will  again  be, — cannot  help 
being.  That  were  the  right  sort  of  Worshipers  for 
Heroes : never  could  the  truly  Better  be  so  rever- 
enced as  where  all  were  True  and  Good ! — But  we 
must  hasten  to  Luther  and  his  Life. 

Luther’s  birthplace  was  Eisleben  in  Saxony ; he 
came  into  the  world  there  on  the  10th  of  November 
1483.  It  was  an  accident  that  gave  this  honour  to 
Eisleben.  His  parents,  poor  mine-labourers  in  a 
village  of  that  region,  named  Mohra,  had  gone  to 
the  Eisleben  Winter-Fair : in  the  tumult  of  this 
scene  the  Frau  Luther  was  taken  with  travail, 
found  refuge  in  some  poor  house  there,  and 
the  boy  she  bore  was  named  Martin  Luther. 
Strange  enough  to  reflect  upon  it.  This  poor  Frau 
Luther,  she  had  gone  with  her  husband  to  make 
her  small  merchandisings ; perhaps  to  sell  the  lock 
of  yarn  she  had  been  spinning,  to  buy  the  small 
winter-necessaries  for  her  narrow  hut  or  household ; 

157 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

in  the  whole  world,  that  day,  there  was  not  a 
more  entirely  unimportant-looking  pair  of  people 
than  this  Miner  and  his  Wife.  And  yet  what  were 
all  Emperors,  Popes  and  Potentates,  in  comparison? 
There  was  born  here,  once  more,  a Mighty  Man ; 
whose  light  was  to  flame  as  the  beacon  over  long 
centuries  and  epochs  of  the  world;  the  whole 
world  and  its  history  was  waiting  for  this  man.  It 
is  strange,  it  is  great.  It  leads  us  back  to  another 
Birth-hour,  in  a still  meaner  environment.  Eighteen 
Hundred  years  ago, — of  which  it  is  fit  that  we  say 
nothing,  that  we  think  only  in  silence ; for  what 
words  are  there  ! The  Age  of  Miracles  past  ? The 
Age  of  Miracles  is  forever  here ! — 

I find  it  altogether  suitable  to  Luther’s  function 
in  this  Earth,  and  doubtless  wisely  ordered  to  that 
end  by  the  Providence  presiding  over  him  and  us 
and  all  things,  that  he  was  born  poor,  and  brought- 
up  poor,  one  of  the  poorest  of  men.  He  had  to  beg, 
as  the  school-children  in  those  times  did ; singing 
for  alms  and  bread,  from  door  to  door.  Hardship, 
rigorous  Necessity  was  the  poor  boy^s  companion ; 
no  man  nor  no  thing  would  put-on  a false  face  to 
flatter  Martin  Luther.  Among  things,  not  among 
the  shows  of  things,  had  he  to  grow.  A boy  of  rude 
figure,  yet  with  weak  health,  with  his  large  greedy 
soul,  full  of  all  faculty  and  sensibility,  he  suffered 
greatly.  But  it  was  his  task  to  get  acquainted  with 
realities^  and  keep  acquainted  with  them,  at  what- 
ever cost : his  task  was  to  bring  the  whole  world 
back  to  reality,  for  it  had  dwelt  too  long  with  sem- 
blance ! A youth  nursed-up  in  wintry  whirlwinds, 
in  desolate  darkness  and  difficulty,  that  he  may 
step-forth  at  last  from  his  stormy  Scandinavia, 
strong  as  a true  man,  as  a god  : a Christian  Odin, — 
a right  Thor  once  more,  with  his  thunder-hammer, 
158 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

to  smite  asunder  ugly  enough  J'dtuns  and  Giant- 
monsters  ! 

Perhaps  the  turning  incident  of  his  life,  we  may 
fancy,  was  that  death  of  his  friend  Alexis,  by  light- 
ning, at  the  gate  of  Erfurt.  Luther  had  struggled- 
up  through  boyhood,  better  and  worse ; displaying, 
in  spite  of  all  hindrances,  the  largest  intellect,  eager 
to  learn : his  father  judging  doubtless  that  he  might 
promote  himself  in  the  world,  set  him  upon  the  study 
of  Law.  This  was  the  path  to  rise ; Luther,  with 
little  will  in  it  either  way,  had  consented:  he  was 
now  nineteen  years  of  age.  Alexis  and  he  had  been 
to  see  the  old  Luther  people  at  Mansfeldt ; were 
got  back  again  near  ErfujJ,  when  a thunderstorm 
came  on ; the  bolt  struck  Alexis,  he  fell  dead  at 
Luther’s  feet.  What  is  this  Life  of  ours  ? — gone  in 
a moment,  burnt-up  like  a scroll,  into  the  blank 
Eternity  ! What  are  all  earthly  preferments,  Ghan- 
cellorships.  Kingships?  They  lie  shrunk  together 
— there ! The  Earth  has  opened  on  them ; in  a 
moment  they  are  not,  and  Eternity  is.  Luther, 
struck  to  the  heart,  determined  to  devote  himself 
to  God,  and  God’s  service  alone.  In  spite  of  all  dis- 
suasions from  his  father  and  others,  he  became  a 
Monk  in  the  Augustine  Convent  at  Erfurt. 

This  was  probably  the  first  light-point  in  the 
history  of  Luther,  his  purer  will  now  first  decisively 
uttering  itself ; but,  for  the  present,  it  was  still  as 
one  light-point  in  an  element  all  of  darkness.  He 
says  he  was  a pious  monk,  ich  bin  ein  frommer  M'dnch 
gewesen  ; faithfully,  painfully  struggling  to  work-out 
the  truth  of  this  high  act  of  his  ; but  it  was  to  little 
purpose.  His  misery  had  not  lessened;  had  rather, 
as  it  were,  increased  into  infinitude.  The  drudgeries 
he  had  to  do,  as  novice  in  his  Convent,  all  sorts  of 
slave- work,  were  not  his  grievance : the  deep  earnest 

159 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

soul  of  the  man  had  fallen  into  all  manner  of  black 
scruples,  dubitations ; he  believed  himself  likely  to 
die  soon,  and  far  worse  than  die.  One  hears  with  a 
new  interest  for  poor  Luther  that,  at  this  time,  he 
lived  in  terror  of  the  unspeakable  misery;  fancied 
that  he  was  doomed  to  eternal  reprobation.  Was  it 
not  the  humble  sincere  nature  of  the  man  ? What 
was  he,  that  he  should  be  raised  to  Heaven  ! He 
that  had  known  only  misery,  and  mean  slavery : 
the  news  was  too  blessed  to  be  credible.  It  could 
not  become  clear  to  him  how,  by  fasts,  vigils,  for- 
malities and  mass-work,  a man^s  soul  could  be 
saved.  He  fell  into  the  blackest  wretchedness;  had 
to  wander  staggering  as  on  the  verge  of  bottomless 
Despair. 

It  must  have  been  a most  blessed  discovery,  that 
of  an  old  Latin  Bible  which  he  found  in  the  Erfurt 
Library  about  this  time.  He  had  never  seen  the 
Book  before.  It  taught  him  another  lesson  than  that 
of  fasts  and  vigils.  A brother  monk  too,  of  pious 
experience,  was  helpful.  Luther  learned  now  that 
a man  was  saved  not  by  singing  masses,  but  by  the 
infinite  grace  of  God : a more  credible  hypothesis. 
He  gradually  got  himself  founded,  as  on  the  rock. 
No  wonder  he  should  venerate  the  Bible,  which  had 
brought  this  blessed  help  to  him.  He  prized  it  as 
the  Word  of  the  Highest  must  be  prized  by  such  a 
man.  He  determined  to  hold  by  that ; as  through 
life  and  to  death  he  firmly  did. 

This  then  is  his  deliverance  from  darkness,  his 
final  triumph  over  darkness,  what  we  call  his  con- 
version ; for  himself  the  most  important  of  all  epochs. 
That  he  should  now  grow  daily  in  peace  and  clear- 
ness ; that,  unfolding  now  the  great  talents  and 
virtues  implanted  in  him,  he  should  rise  to  import- 
ance in  his  Convent,  in  his  country,  and  be  found 
160 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

more  and  more  useful  in  all  honest  business  of  life, 
is  a natural  result.  He  was  sent  on  missions  by 
his  Augustine  Order,  as  a man  of  talent  and  fidelity 
fit  to  do  their  business  well : the  Elector  of  Saxony, 
Friedrich,  named  the  Wise,  a truly  wise  and  just 
prince,  had  cast  his  eye  on  him  as  a valuable  person ; 
made  him  Professor  in  his  new  University  of  Wit- 
tenberg, Preacher  too  at  Wittenberg  ; in  both  which 
capacities,  as  in  all  duties  he  did,  this  Luther,  in  the 
peaceable  sphere  of  common  life,  was  gaining  more 
and  more  esteem  with  all  good  men. 

It  was  in  his  twenty-seventh  year  that  he  first  saw 
Rome  ; being  sent  thither,  as  I said,  on  mission  from 
his  Convent.  Pope  Julius  the  Second,  and  what  was 
going-on  at  Rome,  must  have  filled  the  mind  of 
Luther  with  amazement.  He  had  come  as  to  the 
Sacred  City,  throne  of  God’s  Highpriest  on  Earth  ; 
and  he  found  it — what  we  know ! Many  thoughts 
it  must  have  given  the  man ; many  which  we  have 
no  record  of,  which  perhaps  he  did  not  himself 
know  how  to  utter.  This  Rome,  this  scene  of  false 
priests,  clothed  not  In  the  beauty  of  holiness,  but 
in  far  other  vesture,  is  false:  but  what  Is  It  to 
Luther?  A mean  man  he,  how  shall  he  reform  a 
world  ? That  was  far  from  his  thoughts.  A humble, 
solitary  man,  why  should  he  at  all  meddle  with  the 
world  ? It  was  the  task  of  quite  higher  men  than 
he.  His  business  was  to  guide  his  own  footsteps 
wisely  through  the  world.  Let  him  do  his  own 
obscure  duty  In  it  well ; the  rest,  horrible  and 
dismal  as  It  looks.  Is  in  God’s  hand,  not  in  his. 

It  is  curious  to  reflect  what  might  have  been  the 
issue,  had  Roman  Popery  happened  to  pass  this 
Luther  by;  to  go  on  in  its  great  wasteful  orbit,  and 
not  come  athwart  his  little  path,  and  force  him  to 
assault  it ! Conceivable  enough  that,  in  this  case, 

161 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

he  might  have  held  his  peace  about  the  abuses  of 
Rome ; left  Providence,  and  God  on  high,  to  deal 
with  them  ! A modest  quiet  man ; not  prompt  he 
to  attack  irreverently  persons  in  authority.  His 
clear  task,  as  I say,  was  to  do  his  own  duty ; to 
walk  wisely  in  this  world  of  confused  wickedness, 
and  save  his  own  soul  alive.  But  the  Roman  High- 
priesthood  did  come  athwart  him : afar  off  at  Witten- 
berg he,  Luther,  could  not  get  lived  in  honesty  for  it; 
he  remonstrated,  resisted,  came  to  extremity ; was 
struck-at,  struck  again,  and  so  it  came  to  wager  of 
battle  between  them  ! This  is  worth  attending  to 
in  Luther’s  history.  Perhaps  no  man  of  so  humble, 
peaceable  a disposition  ever  filled  the  world  with 
contention.  We  cannot  but  see  that  he  would  have 
loved  privacy,  quiet  diligence  in  the  shade ; that  it 
was  against  his  will  he  ever  became  a notoriety. 
Notoriety : what  would  that  do  for  him  ? The  goal 
of  his  march  through  this  world  was  the  Infinite 
Heaven  ; an  indubitable  goal  for  him : in  a few 
years,  he  should  either  have  attained  that,  or  lost  it 
forever ! We  will  say  nothing  at  all,  I think,  of  that 
sorrowfullest  of  theories,  of  its  being  some  mean 
shopkeeper  grudge,  of  the  Augustine  Monk  against 
the  Dominican,  that  first  kindled  the  wrath  of 
Luther,  and  produced  the  Protestant  Reformation. 
We  will  say  to  the  people  who  maintain  it,  if  indeed 
any  such  exist  now : Get  first  into  the  sphere  of 
thought  by  which  it  is  so  much  as  possible  to  judge 
of  Luther,  or  of  any  man  like  Luther,  otherwise 
than  distractedly ; we  may  then  begin  arguing  with 
you. 

The  Monk  Tetzel,  sent  out  carelessly  in  the  way 
of  trade,  by  Leo  Tenth, — who  merely  wanted  to 
raise  a little  money,  and  for  the  rest  seems  to  have 
been  a Pagan  rather  than  a Christian,  so  far  as  he 
162 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

was  anything, — arrived  at  Wittenberg,  and  drove 
his  scandalous  trade  there.  Luther’s  flock  bought 
Indulgences;  in  the  confessional  of  his  Church, 
people  pleaded  to  him  that  they  had  already  got 
their  sins  pardoned.  Luther,  if  he  would  not  be  found 
wanting  at  his  own  post,  a false  sluggard  and  coward 
at  the  very  centre  of  the  little  space  of  ground  that 
was  his  own  and  no  other  man’s,  had  to  step-forth 
against  Indulgences,  and  declare  aloud  that  they 
were  a futility  and  sorrowful  mockery,  that  no 
man’s  sins  could  be  pardoned  by  them.  It  was  the 
beginning  of  the  whole  Reformation.  We  know 
how  it  went ; forward  from  this  first  public  chal- 
lenge of  Tetzel,  on  the  last  day  of  October  1517, 
through  remonstrance  and  argument; — spreading 
ever  wider,  rising  ever  higher ; till  it  became  un- 
quenchable, and  enveloped  all  the  world.  Luther’s 
heart’s-desire  was  to  have  this  grief  and  other 
griefs  amended;  his  thought  was  still  far  other 
than  that  of  introducing  separation  in  the  Church, 
or  revolting  against  the  Pope,  Father  of  Christen- 
dom.— The  elegant  Pagan  Pope  cared  little  about 
this  Monk  and  his  doctrines ; wished,  however, 
to  have  done  with  the  noise  of  him  : in  a space 
of  some  three  years,  having  tried  various  softer 
methods,  he  thought  good  to  end  it  by  fire.  He 
dooms  the  Monk’s  writings  to  be  burnt  by  the 
hangman,  and  his  body  to  be  sent  bound  to  Rome, — 
probably  for  a similar  purpose.  It  was  the  way 
they  had  ended  with  Huss,  with  Jerome,  the  cen- 
tury before.  A short  argument,  fire.  Poor  Huss : 
he  came  to  that  Constance  Council,  with  all  ima- 
ginable promises  and  safe-conducts;  an  earnest, 
not  rebellious  kind  of  man  : they  laid  him  instantly 
in  a stone  dungeon  ‘ three-feet  wide,  six-feet  high, 
seven-feet  long ; ’ burnt  the  true  voice  of  him  out  of 

163 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

this  world ; choked  it  In  smoke  and  fire.  That  was 
not  well  done ! 

I,  for  one,  pardon  Luther  for  now  altogether 
revolting  against  the  Pope.  The  elegant  Pagan,  by 
this  fire-decree  of  his,  had  kindled  into  noble  just 
wrath  the  bravest  heart  then  living  in  this  world. 
The  bravest,  if  also  one  of  the  humblest,  peace- 
ablest ; it  was  now  kindled.  These  words  of  mine, 
words  of  truth  and  soberness,  aiming  faithfully,  as 
human  inability  would  allow,  to  promote  God’s 
truth  on  Earth,  and  save  men’s  souls,  you,  God’s 
vicegerent  on  earth,  answer  them  by  the  hangman 
and  fire  ? You  will  burn  me  and  them,  for  answer 
to  the  God’s-message  they  strove  to  bring  you? 
You  are  not  God’s  vicegerent ; you  are  another’s 
than  his,  I think  ! I take  your  Bull,  as  an  emparch- 
mented  Lie,  and  burn  it.  You  will  do  what  you 
see  good  next : this  is  what  I do. — It  was  on  the 
10th  of  December  1520,  three  years  after  the 
beginning  of  the  business,  that  Luther  ‘ with  a 
great  concourse  of  people,’  took  this  indignant  step 
of  burning  the  Pope’s  fire-decree  ‘ at  the  Elster- 
Gate  of  Wittenberg.’  Wittenberg  looked-on  ‘ with 
shoutings  ’ ; the  whole  world  was  looking-on.  The 
Pope  should  not  have  provoked  that  ‘ shout ! I It 
was  the  shout  of  the  awakening  of  nations.  The 
quiet  German  heart,  modest,  patient  of  much,  had 
at  length  got  more  than  it  could  bear.  F ormulism. 
Pagan  Popism,  and  other  Falsehood  and  corrupt 
Semblance  had  ruled  long  enough : and  here  once 
more  was  a man  found  who  durst  tell  all  men 
that  God’s-world  stood  not  on  semblances  but  on 
realities  ; that  Life  was  a truth,  and  not  a lie  ! 

At  bottom,  as  was  said  above,  we  are  to  consider 
Luther  as  a Prophet  Idol-breaker ; a bringer-back 
of  men  to  reality.  It  is  the  function  of  great  men 
164 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

and  teachers.  Mahomet  said,  These  idols  of  yours 
are  wood ; you  put  wax  and  oil  on  them,  the  flies 
stick  on  them : they  are  not  God,  I tell  you,  they 
are  black  wood  ! Luther  said  to  the  Pope,  This 
thing  of  yours  that  you  call  a Pardon  of  Sins,  it  is 
a bit  of  rag-paper  with  ink.  It  is  nothing  else  ; it, 
and  so  much  like  it,  is  nothing  else.  God  alone 
can  pardon  sins.  Popeship,  spiritual  Fatherhood 
of  God’s  Church,  is  that  a vain  semblance,  of  cloth 
and  parchment?  It  is  an  awful  fact.  God’s  Church 
is  not  a semblance.  Heaven  and  Hell  are  not  sem- 
blances. I stand  on  this,  since  you  drive  me  to  it. 
Standing  on  this,  I a poor  German  Monk  am 
stronger  than  you  all.  I stand  solitary,  friendless, 
but  on  God’s  Truth ; you  with  your  tiaras,  triple- 
hats, with  your  treasuries  and  armories,  thunders 
spiritual  and  temporal,  stand  on  the  Devil’s  Lie, 
and  are  not  so  strong  ! — 

The  Diet  of  Woriiis,  Luther’s  appearance  there 
on  the  17th  of  April  1521,  may  be  considered  as 
the  greatest  scene  in  Modern  European  History ; 
the  point,  indeed,  from  which  the  whole  subsequent 
history  of  civilisation  takes  its  rise.  After  multi- 
plied negotiations,  disputations,  it  had  come  to  this. 
The  young  Emperor  Charles  Fifth,  with  all  the 
Princes  of  Germany,  Papal  nuncios,  dignitaries 
spiritual  and  temporal,  are  assembled  there : Luther 
is  to  appear  and  answer  for  himself,  whether  he 
will  recant  or  not.  The  world’s  pomp  and  power 
sits  there  on  this  hand : on  that,  stands-up  for  God’s 
Truth,  one  man,  the  poor  miner  Hans  Luther’s  Son. 
Friends  had  reminded  him  of  Huss,  advised  him 
not  to  go ; he  would  not  be  advised.  A large  com- 
pany of  friends  rode-out  to  meet  him,  with  still 
more  earnest  warnings ; he  answered,  ‘‘  Were  there 
as  many  Devils  in  Worms  as  there  are  roof-tiles,  I 

165 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

would  on.”  The  people,  on  the  morrow,  as  he  went 
to  the  Hall  of  the  Diet,  crowded  the  windows  and 
housetops,  some  of  them  calling  out  to  him,  in 
solemn  words,  not  to  recant : “ Whosoever  denieth 
me  before  men  ! they  cried  to  him, — as  in  a kind 
of  solemn  petition  and  adjuration.  Was  it  not  in 
reality  our  petition  too,  the  petition  of  the  whole 
world,  lying  in  dark  bondage  of  soul,  paralysed 
under  a black  spectral  Nightmare  and  triple-hatted 
Chimera,  calling  itself  Father  in  God,  and  what 
not : "‘Free  us ; it  rests  with  thee  ; desert  us  not ! ” 
Luther  did  not  desert  us.  His  speech,  of  two  hours, 
distinguished  itself  by  its  respectful,  wise  and  honest 
tone ; submissive  to  whatsoever  could  lawfully  claim 
submission,  not  submissive  to  any  more  than  that. 
His  writings,  he  said,  were  partly  his  own,  partly 
derived  from  the  Word  of  God.  As  to  what  was 
his  own,  human  infirmity  entered  into  it ; unguarded 
anger,  blindness,  many  things  doubtless  which  it 
were  a blessing  for  him  could  he  abolish  alto- 
gether. But  as  to  what  stood  on  sound  truth  and 
the  Word  of  God,  he  could  not  recant  it.  How  could 
he  ? “ Confute  me,”  he  concluded,  “ by  proofs  of 
Scripture,  or  else  by  plain  just  arguments : I cannot 
recant  otherwise.  F or  it  is  neither  safe  nor  prudent 
to  do  aught  against  conscience.  Here  stand  I ; I 
can  do  no  other ; God  assist  me  ! ” — It  is,  as  we 
say,  the  greatest  moment  in  the  Modern  History  of 
Men.  English  Puritanism,  England  and  its  Parlia- 
ments, Americas,  and  vast  work  these  two  cen- 
turies; French  Revolution,  Europe  and  its  work 
everywhere  at  present : the  germ  of  it  all  lay  there : 
had  Luther  in  that  moment  done  other,  it  had  all 
been  otherwise  ! The  European  World  was  asking 
him  : Am  I to  sink  ever  lower  into  falsehood, 
stagnant  putrescence,  loathsome  accursed  death ; 
166 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

or,  with  whatever  paroxysm,  to  cast  the  falsehoods 
out  of  me,  and  be  cured  and  live  ? — 

Great  wars,  contentions  and  disunion  followed 
out  of  this  Reformation ; which  last  down  to  our 
day,  and  are  yet  far  from  ended.  Great  talk  and 
crimination  has  been  made  about  these.  They  are 
lamentable,  undeniable  ; but  after  all,  what  has 
Luther  or  his  cause  to  do  with  them?  It  seems 
strange  reasoning  to  charge  the  Reformation  with 
all  this.  When  Hercules  turned  the  purifying  river 
into  King  Augeas’s  stables,  I have  no  doubt  the  con- 
fusion that  resulted  was  considerable  all  around:  but 
I think  it  was  not  Hercules’s  blame ; it  was  some 
other’s  blame  ! The  Reformation  might  bring  what 
results  it  liked  when  it  came,  but  the  Reformation 
simply  could  not  help  coming.  To  all  Popes  and 
Popes’  advocates,  expostulating,  lamenting  and  ac- 
cusing, the  answer  of  the  world  is : Once  for  all, 
your  Popehood  has  become  untrue.  No  matter  how 
good  it  was,  how  good  you  say  it  is,  we  cannot  be- 
lieve it ; the  light  of  our  whole  mind,  given  us  to 
walk-by  from  Heaven  above,  finds  it  henceforth  a 
thing  unbelievable.  We  will  not  believe  it,  we  will 
not  try  to  believe  it, — we  dare  not ! The  thing  is 
untrue;  we  were  traitors  against  the  Giver  of  all 
Truth,  if  we  durst  pretend  to  think  it  true.  Away 
with  it ; let  whatsoever  likes  come  in  the  place  of 
it : with  it  we  can  have  no  farther  trade  ! — Luther 
and  his  Protestantism  is  not  responsible  for  wars  ; 
the  false  Simulacra  that  forced  him  to  protest,  they 
are  responsible.  Luther  did  what  every  man  that 
God  has  made  has  not  only  the  right,  but  lies  under 
the  sacred  duty,  to  do  : answered  a Falsehood  when 
it  questioned  him.  Dost  thou  believe  me? — No  ! — 
At  what  cost  soever,  without  counting  of  costs,  this 

167 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

thing  behoved  to  be  done.  Union,  organisation 
spiritual  and  material,  a far  nobler  than  any  Pope- 
dom or  Feudalism  in  their  truest  days,  I never 
doubt,  is  coming  for  the  world ; sure  to  come.  But 
on  Fact  alone,  not  on  Semblance  and  Simulacrum, 
will  it  be  able  either  to  come,  or  to  stand  when 
come.  With  union  grounded  on  falsehood,  and 
ordering  us  to  speak  and  act  lies,  we  will  not  have 
anything  to  do.  Peace  ? A brutal  lethargy  is  peace- 
able, the  noisome  grave  is  peaceable.  We  hope  for 
a living  peace,  not  a dead  one  ! 

And  yet,  in  prizing  justly  the  indispensable 
blessings  of  the  New,  let  us  not  be  unjust  to  the 
Old.  The  Old  was  true,  if  it  no  longer  is.  In 
Dante’s  days  it  needed  no  sophistry,  self-blinding 
or  other  dishonesty,  to  get  itself  reckoned  true. 
It  was  good  then ; nay  there  is  in  the  soul  of  it  a 
deathless  good.  The  cry  of  ‘ No  Popery,’  is  foolish 
enough  in  these  days.  The  speculation  that  Popery 
is  on  the  increase,  building  new  chapels,  and  so 
forth,  may  pass  for  one  of  the  idlest  ever  started. 
Very  curious:  to  count-up  a few  Popish  chapels, 
listen  to  a few  Protestant  logic- choppings, — to  much 
dull- droning  drowsy  inanity  that  still  calls  itself 
Protestant,  and  say : See,  Protestantism  is  dead ; 
Popism  is  more  alive  than  it,  will  be  alive  after  it ! — 
Drowsy  inanities,  not  a few,  that  call  themselves 
Protestant  are  dead ; but  Protestantism  has  not  died 
yet,  that  I hear  of!  Protestantism,  if  we  will  look, 
has  in  these  days  produced  its  Goethe,  its  Napoleon ; 
German  Literature  and  the  French  Revolution; 
rather  considerable  signs  of  life  ! Nay,  at  bottom, 
what  else  is  alive  but  Protestantism  ? The  life 
of  most  else  that  one  meets  is  a galvanic  one 
merely, — not  a pleasant,  not  a lasting  sort  of 
life ! 

168 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

Popery  can  build  new  chapels ; welcome  to  do 
so,  to  all  lengths.  Popery  cannot  come  back,  any 
more  than  Paganism  can, — which  also  still  lingers 
in  some  countries.  But,  indeed,  it  is  with  these 
things,  as  with  the  ebbing  of  the  sea : you  look  at 
the  waves  oscillating  hither,  thither  on  the  beach ; 
for  minutes  you  cannot  tell  how  it  is  going ; look 
in  half  an  hour  where  it  is, — look  in  half  a century 
where  your  Popehood  is  ! Alas,  would  there  were 
no  greater  danger  to  our  Europe  than  the  poor  old 
Pope’s  revival ! Thor  may  as  soon  try  to  revive. — 
And  withal  this  oscillation  has  a meaning.  The 
poor  old  Popehood  will  not  die  away  entirely,  as 
Thor  has  done,  for  some  time  yet ; nor  ought  it. 
We  may  say,  the  Old  never  dies  till  this  happen, 
Till  all  the  soul  of  good  that  was  in  it  have  got 
itself  transfused  into  the  practical  New.  While  a 
good  work  remains  capable  of  being  done  by  the 
Romish  form ; or,  what  is  inclusive  of  all,  while  a 
pious  life  remains  capable  of  being  led  by  it,  just  so 
long,  if  we  consider,  will  this  or  the  other  human 
soul  adopt  it,  go  about  as  a living  witness  of  it.  So 
long  it  will  obtrude  itself  on  the  eye  of  us  who 
reject  it,  till  we  in  our  practice  too  have  appro- 
priated whatsoever  of  truth  was  in  it.  Then,  but 
also  not  till  then,  it  will  have  no  charm  more  for 
any  man.  It  lasts  here  for  a purpose.  Let  it  last 
as  long  as  it  can. — 

Of  Luther  I will  add  now,  in  reference  to  all 
these  wars  and  bloodshed,  the  noticeable  fact  that 
none  of  them  began  so  long  as  he  continued  living. 
The  controversy  did  not  get  to  fighting  so  long  as 
he  was  there.  To  me  it  is  proof  of  his  greatness  in 
all  senses,  this  fact.  How  seldom  do  we  find  a man 
that  has  stirred-up  some  vast  commotion,  who  does 

169 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

not  himself  perish,  swept-away  in  it ! Such  is  the 
usual  course  of  revolutionists.  Luther  continued, 
in  a good  degree,  sovereign  of  this  greatest  revo- 
lution; all  Protestants,  of  what  rank  or  function 
soever,  looking  much  to  him  for  guidance  : and  he 
held  it  peaceable,  continued  firm  at  the  centre  of  it. 
A man  to  do  this  must  have  a kingly  faculty : he 
must  have  the  gift  to  discern  at  all  turns  where  the 
true  heart  of  the  matter  lies,  and  to  plant  himself 
courageously  on  that,  as  a strong  true  man,  that 
other  true  men  may  rally  round  him  there.  He 
will  not  continue  leader  of  men  otherwise.  Luther’s 
clear  deep  force  of  judgment,  his  force  of  all  sorts, 
of  silence^  of  tolerance  and  moderation,  among 
others,  are  very  notable  in  these  circumstances. 

Tolerance,  I say ; a very  genuine  kind  of  toler- 
ance : he  distinguishes  what  is  essential,  and  what 
is  not ; the  unessential  may  go  very  much  as  it  will. 
A complaint  comes  to  him  that  such  and  such  a 
Reformed  Preacher  ‘will  not  preach  without  a 
cassock.’  Well,  answers  Luther,  what  harm  will 
a cassock  do  the  man  ? ‘ Let  him  have  a cassock 

to  preach  in ; let  him  have  three  cassocks  if  he  find 
benefit  in  them  ! ’ His  conduct  in  the  matter  of 
Karlstadt’s  wild  image-breaking;  of  the  Anabap- 
tists ; of  the  Peasants’  War,  shows  a noble  strength, 
very  different  from  spasmodic  violence.  With  sure 
prompt  insight  he  discriminates  what  is  what : a 
strong  just  man,  he  speaks-forth  what  is  the  wise 
course,  and  all  men  follow  him  in  that.  Luther’s 
Written  Works  give  similar  testimony  of  him.  The 
dialect  of  these  speculations  is  now  grown  obsolete 
for  us ; but  one  still  reads  them  with  a singular  at- 
traction. And  indeed  the  mere  grammatical  diction 
is  still  legible  enough ; Luther’s  merit  in  literary 
history  is  of  the  greatest : his  dialect  became  the 
170 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

language  of  all  writing.  They  are  not  well  written, 
these  Four-and-twenty  Quartos  of  his;  written 
hastily,  with  quite  other  than  literary  objects.  But 
in  no  Books  have  I found  a more  robust,  genuine, 
I will  say  noble  faculty  of  a man  than  in  these.  A 
rugged  honesty,  homeliness,  simplicity ; a rugged 
sterling  sense  and  strength.  He  flashes-out  illumi- 
nation from  him  ; his  smiting  idiomatic  phrases  seem 
to  cleave  into  the  very  secret  of  the  matter.  Good 
humour  too,  nay  tender  affection,  nobleness,  and 
depth  : this  man  could  have  been  a Poet  too  ! He 
had  to  work  an  Epic  Poem,  not  write  one.  I call  him 
a great  Thinker ; as  indeed  his  greatness  of  heart 
already  betokens  that. 

Richter  says  of  Lutheri s words,  ‘ his  words  are 
half-battles.’  They  may  be  called  so.  The  essential 
quality  of  him  was,  that  he  could  fight  and  conquer  ; 
that  he  was  a right  piece  of  human  Valour.  No 
more  valiant  man,  no  mortal  heart  to  be  called 
braver,  that  one  has  record  of,  ever  lived  in  that 
Teutonic  Kindred,  whose  character  is  valour.  His 
defiance  of  the  ‘ Devils  ’ in  Worms  was  not  a mere 
boast,  as  the  like  might  be  if  now  spoken.  It  was  a 
faith  of  Luther’s  that  there  were  Devils,  spiritual 
denizens  of  the  Pit,  continually  besetting  men. 
Many  times,  in  his  writings,  this  turns-up ; and  a 
most  small  sneer  has  been  grounded  on  it  by  some. 
In  the  room  of  the  Wartburg  where  he  sat  trans- 
lating the  Bible,  they  still  show  you  a black  spot  on 
the  wall ; the  strange  memorial  of  one  of  these  con- 
flicts. Luther  sat  translating  one  of  the  Psalms  ; he 
was  worn-down  with  long  labour,  with  sickness, 
abstinence  from  food : there  rose  before  him  some 
hideous  indefinable  Image,  which  he  took  for  the 
Evil  One,  to  forbid  his  work : Luther  started-up, 
with  fiend-defiance ; flung  his  inkstand  at  the  spectre, 

171 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

and  it  disappeared ! The  spot  still  remains  there ; a 
curious  monument  of  several  things.  Any  apothe- 
cary’s apprentice  can  now  tell  us  what  we  are  to 
think  of  this  apparition,  in  a scientific  sense : but 
the  man’s  heart  that  dare  rise  defiant,  face  to  face, 
against  Hell  itself,  can  give  no  higher  proof  of  fear- 
lessness. The  thing  he  will  quail  before,  exists  not 
on  this  Earth  or  under  it. — F earless  enough ! ‘ The 
Devil  is  aware,’  writes  he  on  one  occasion,  * that 
this  does  not  proceed  out  of  fear  in  me.  I have  seen 
and  defied  innumerable  Devils.  Duke  George,’  of 
Leipzig,  a great  enemy  of  his,  ‘ Duke  George  is  not 
equal  to  one  Devil,’ — far  short  of  a Devil ! ‘ If  I had 
business  at  Leipzig,  I would  ride  into  Leipzig,  though 
it  rained  Duke- Georges  for  nine  days  running.* 
What  a reservoir  of  Dukes  to  ride  into  !— 

At  the  same  time,  they  err  greatly  who  imagine 
that  this  man’s  courage  was  ferocity,  mere  coarse 
disobedient  obstinacy  and  savagery,  as  many  do. 
Far  from  that.  There  may  be  an  absence  of  fear 
which  arises  from  the  absence  of  thought  or  affec- 
tion, from  the  presence  of  hatred  and  stupid  fury. 
We  do  not  value  the  courage  of  the  tiger  highly ! 
With  Luther  it  was  far  otherwise ; no  accusation 
could  be  more  unjust  than  this  of  mere  ferocious 
violence  brought  against  him.  A most  gentle  heart 
withal,  full  of  pity  and  love,  as  indeed  the  truly 
valiant  heart  ever  is.  The  tiger  before  a stronger  foe 
— flies ; the  tiger  is  not  what  we  call  valiant,  only 
fierce  and  cruel.  I know  few  things  more  touching 
than  those  soft  breathings  of  affection,  soft  as  a 
child’s  or  a mother’s,  in  this  great  wild  heart  of 
Luther.  So  honest,  unadulterated  with  any  cant ; 
homely,  rude  in  their  utterance ; pure  as  water 
welling  from  the  rock.  What,  in  fact,  was  all  that 
downpressed  mood  of  despair  and  reprobation, 
172 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

which  we  saw  in  his  youth,  but  the  outcome  of  pre- 
eminent thoughtful  gentleness,  affections  too  keen 
and  fine?  It  is  the  course  such  men  as  the  poor 
Poet  Gowper  fall  into.  Luther  to  a slight  observer, 
might  have  seemed  a timid,  weak  man ; modesty, 
affectionate  shrinking  tenderness  the  chief  distinc- 
tion of  him.  It  is  a noble  valour  which  is  roused 
in  a heart  like  this,  once  stirred-up  into  defiance, 
all  kindled  into  a heavenly  blaze. 

In  Luther’s  Table-Talk,  a posthumous  Book  of 
anecdotes  and  sayings  collected  by  his  friends,  the 
most  interesting  now  of  all  the  Books  proceeding 
from  him,  we  have  many  beautiful  unconscious  dis- 
plays of  the  man,  and  what  sort  of  nature  he  had. 
His  behaviour  at  the  deathbed  of  his  little  Daughter, 
so  still,  so  great  and  loving,  is  among  the  most  affect- 
ing things.  He  is  resigned  that  his  little  Magdalene 
should  die,  yet  longs  inexpressibly  that  she  might 
live ; — follows,  in  awestruck  thought,  the  flight  of 
her  little  soul  through  those  unknown  realms.  Awe- 
struck ; most  heartfelt,'  we  can  see ; and  sincere, — 
for  after  all  dogmatic  creeds  and  articles,  he  feels 
what  nothing  it  is  that  we  know,  or  can  know  : His 
little  Magdalene  shall  be  with  God,  as  God  wills ; 
for  Luther  too  that  is  all ; Islam  is  all. 

Once,  he  looks- out  from  his  solitary  Patmos,  the 
Castle  of  Coburg,  in  the  middle  of  the  night : The 
great  vault  of  Immensity,  long  flights  of  clouds  sail- 
ing through  it, — dumb,  gaunt,  huge : — who  supports 
all  that  ? ‘‘  None  ever  saw  the  pillars  of  it ; yet  it  is 
supported.”  God  supports  it.  We  must  know  that 
God  is  great,  that  God  is  good ; and  trust,  where  we 
cannot  see. — Returning  home  from  Leipzig  once,  he 
IS  struck  by  the  beauty  of  the  harvest-fields : How 
it  stands,  that  golden  yellow  corn,  on  its  fair  taper 
stem,  its  golden  head  bent,  all  rich  and  waving 

173 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

there, — the  meek  Earth,  at  God’s  kind  bidding,  has 
produced  it  once  again ; the  bread  of  man  ! — In  the 
garden  at  Wittenberg  one  evening  at  sunset,  a little 
bird  has  perched  for  the  night : That  little  bird,  says 
Luther,  above  it  are  the  stars  and  deep  Heaven 
of  worlds ; yet  it  has  folded  its  little  wings ; gone 
trustfully  to  rest  there  as  in  its  home : the  Maker 
of  it  has  given  it  too  a home  ! Neither  are  mirth- 

ful turns  wanting : there  is  a great  free  human  heart 
in  this  man.  The  common  speech  of  him  has  a 
rugged  nobleness,  idiomatic,  expressive,  genuine; 
gleams  here  and  there  with  beautiful  poetic  tints. 
One  feels  him  to  be  a great  brother  man.  His  love 
of  Music,  indeed,  is  not  this,  as  it  were,  the  sum- 
mary of  all  these  affections  in  him  ? Many  a wild 
unutterability  he  spoke-forth  from  him  in  the  tones 
of  his  flute.  The  Devils  fled  from  his  flute,  he  says. 
Death-defiance  on  the  one  hand,  and  such  love  of 
music  on  the  other;  I could  call  these  the  two 
opposite  poles  of  a great  soul ; between  these  two 
all  great  things  had  room. 

Luther’s  face  is  to  me  expressive  of  him  ; in  Kra- 
nach’s  best  portraits  I find  the  true  Luther.  A rude, 
plebeian  face ; with  its  huge  crag- like  brows  and 
bones,  the  emblem  of  rugged  energy ; at  first,  almost 
a repulsive  face.  Yet  in  the  eyes  especially  there 
is  a wild  silent  sorrow ; an  unnamable  melancholy, 
the  element  of  all  gentle  and  fine  affections ; giving 
to  the  rest  the  true  stamp  of  nobleness.  Laughter 
was  in  this  Luther,  as  we  said ; but  tears  also  were 
there.  Tears  also  were  appointed  him ; tears  and 
hard  toil.  The  basis  of  his  life  was  Sadness,  Earnest- 
ness. In  his  latter  days,  after  all  triumphs  and  vic- 
tories, he  expresses  himself  heartily  weary  of  living; 
he  considers  that  God  alone  can  and  will  regulate 
the  course  things  are  taking,  and  that  perhaps  the 
174 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

Day  of  Judgment  is  not  far.  As  for  him,  he  longs 
for  one  thing  : that  God  would  release  him  from  his 
labour,  and  let  him  depart  and  be  at  rest.  They 
understand  little  of  the  man  who  cite  this  in  dis- 
credit of  him  ! — I will  call  this  Luther  a true  Great 
Man  ; great  in  intellect,  in  courage,  affection  and  in- 
tegrity ; one  of  our  most  lovable  and  precious  men. 
Great,  not  as  a hewn  obelisk;  but  as  an  Alpine 
mountain, — so  simple,  honest,  spontaneous,  not  set- 
ting-up to  be  great  at  all ; there  for  quite  another 
purpose  than  being  great ! Ah  yes,  unsubduable 
granite,  piercing  far  and  wide  into  the  Heavens; 
yet  in  the  clefts  of  it  fountains,  green  beautiful 
valleys  with  flowers ! A right  Spiritual  Hero  and 
Prophet ; once  more,  a true  Son  of  Nature  and 
Fact,  for  whom  these  centuries,  and  many  that  are 
to  come  yet,  will  be  thankful  to  Heaven. 

The  most  interesting  phasis  which  the  Reforma- 
tion anywhere  assumes,  especially  for  us  English, 
is  that  of  Puritanism.  In  Luther’s  own  country, 
Protestantism  soon  dwindled  into  a rather  barren 
affair ; not  a religion  or  faith,  but  rather  now  a 
theological  jangling  of  argument,  the  proper  seat  of 
it  not  the  heart ; the  essence  of  it  sceptical  conten- 
tion : which  indeed  has  jangled  more  and  more,  down 
to  Voltairism  itself, — through  Gustavus- Adolphus 
contentions  onward  to  French-Revolution  ones! 
But  in  our  Island  there  arose  a Puritanism,  which 
even  got  itself  established  as  a Presbyterianism  and 
National  Church  among  the  Scotch ; which  came 
forth  as  a real  business  of  the  heart ; and  has  pro- 
duced in  the  world  very  notable  fruit.  In  some 
senses,  one  may  say  it  is  the  only  phasis  of  Pro- 
testantism that  ever  got  to  the  rank  of  being  a Faith, 
a true  heart-communication  with  Heaven,  and  of 

175 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

exhibiting  itself  in  History  as  such.  We  must  spare 
a few  words  for  Knox ; himself  a brave  and  remark- 
able man  ; but  still  more  important  as  Chief  Priest 
and  Founder,  which  one  may  consider  him  to  be,  of 
the  Faith  that  became  Scotland’s,  New  England’s, 
Oliver  Cromwell’s.  History  will  have  something  to 
say  about  this,  for  some  time  to  come  ! 

We  may  censure  Puritanism  as  we  please ; and 
no  one  of  us,  I suppose,  but  would  find  it  a very 
rough  defective  thing.  But  we,  and  all  men,  may 
understand  that  it  was  a genuine  thing ; for  Nature 
has  adopted  it,  and  it  has  grown,  and  grows.  I say 
sometimes,  that  all  goes  by  wager-of-battle  in  this 
world ; that  strength,vfQ\\  understood,  is  the  measure 
of  all  worth.  Give  a thing  time  ; if  it  can  succeed, 
it  is  a right  thing.  Look  now  at  American  Saxon- 
dom;  and  at  that  little  Fact  of  the  sailing  of  the 
Mayflower,  two  hundred  years  ago,  from  Delft 
Haven  in  Holland!  Were  we  of  open  sense  as  the 
Greeks  were,  we  had  found  a Poem  here ; one  of 
Nature’s  own  Poems,  such  as  she  writes  in  broad 
facts  over  great  continents.  F or  it  was  properly  the 
beginning  of  America : there  were  straggling  settlers 
in  America  before,  some  material  as  of  a body  was 
there ; but  the  soul  of  it  was  first  this.  These  poor 
men,  driven- out  of  their  own  country,  not  able  well 
to  live  in  Holland,  determine  on  settling  in  the  New 
World.  Black  untamed  forests  are  there,  and  wild 
savage  creatures ; but  not  so  cruel  as  Starchamber 
hangmen.  They  thought  the  Earth  would  yield 
them  food,  if  they  tilled  honestly ; the  everlasting 
heaven  would  stretch,  there  too,  overhead;  they 
should  be  left  in  peace,  to  prepare  for  Eternity  by 
living  well  in  this  world  of  Time;  worshiping  in 
what  they  thought  the  true,  not  the  idolatrous  way. 
They  clubbed  their  small  means  together ; hired  a 
176 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

ship,  the  little  ship  Mayflower,  and  made  ready  to 
set  sail.  In  Neats  History  of  the  Puritans^  is  an  ac- 
count of  the  ceremony  of  their  departure : solemnity 
we  might  call  it  rather,  for  it  was  a real  act  of  wor- 
ship. Their  minister  went  down  with  them  to  the 
beach,  and  their  brethren  whom  they  were  to  leave 
behind;  all  joined  in  solemn  prayer, That  God  would 
have  pity  on  His  poor  children,  and  go  with  them 
into  that  waste  wilderness,  for  He  also  had  made 
that.  He  was  there  also  as  well  as  here. — Hah  ! 
These  men,  I think,  had  a work  ! The  weak  thing, 
weaker  than  a child,  becomes  strong  one  day,  if  it 
be  a true  thing.  Puritanism  was  only  despicable, 
laughable  then ; but  nobody  can  manage  to  laugh 
at  it  now.  Puritanism  has  got  weapons  and  sinews; 
it  has  fire-arms,  war-navies ; it  has  cunning  in  its  ten 
fingers,  strength  in  its  right  arm  ; it  can  steer  ships, 
fell  forests,  remove  mountains ; — it  is  one  of  the 
strongest  things  under  this  sun  at  present ! 

In  the  history  of  Scotland  too,  I can  find  properly 
but  one  epoch  : we  may  say,  it  contains  nothing  of 
world-interest  at  all  but  this  Reformation  by  Knox. 
A poor  barren  country,  full  of  continual  broils,  dis- 
sensions, massacrings  ; a people  in  the  last  state  of 
rudeness  and  destitution,  little  better  perhaps  than 
Ireland  at  this  day.  Hungry  fierce  barons,  not  so 
much  as  able  to  form  any  arrangement  with  each 
other  how  to  divide  what  they  fleeced  from  these 
poor  drudges ; but  obliged,  as  the  Columbian  Re- 
publics are  at  this  day,  to  make  of  every  alteration 
a revolution ; no  way  of  changing  a ministry  but 
by  hanging  the  old  ministers  on  gibbets : this  is  a 
historical  spectacle  of  no  very  singular  significance  ! 
‘ Bravery  ’ enough,  I doubt  not ; fierce  fighting  in 

^ Neal  {London,  1755),  L 490. 
m 


177 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

abundance  : but  not  braver  or  fiercer  than  that  of 
their  old  Scandinavian  Sea-king  ancestors ; whose 
exploits  we  have  not  found  worth  dwelling- on  ! It 
is  a country  as  yet  without  a soul : nothing  de- 
veloped in  it  but  what  is  rude,  external,  semi-animal. 
And  now  at  the  Reformation,  the  internal  life  is 
kindled,  as  it  were,  under  the  ribs  of  this  outward 
material  death.  A cause,  the  noblest  of  causes 
kindles  itself,  like  a beacon  set  on  high ; high  as 
Heaven,  yet  attainable  from  Earth ; — whereby  the 
meanest  man  becomes  not  a Citizen  only,  but  a 
Member  of  Christ’s  visible  Church;  a veritable 
Hero,  if  he  prove  a true  man  ! 

Well ; this  is  what  I mean  by  a whole  * nation  of 
heroes  ; ’ a believing  nation.  There  needs  not  a great 
soul  to  make  a hero ; there  needs  a god- created  soul 
which  will  be  true  to  its  origin;  that  will  be  a great 
soul ! The  like  has  been  seen,  we  find.  The  like  will 
be  again  seen,  under  wider  forms  than  the  Presby- 
terian : there  can  be  no  lasting  good  done  till  then. — 
Impossible  ! say  some.  Possible  ? Has  it  not  been^ 
in  this  world,  as  a practised  fact  ? Did  Hero- 
worship  fail  in  Knox’s  case  ? Or  are  we  made  of 
other  clay  now  ? Did  the  Westminster  Confession 
of  Faith  add  some  new  property  to  the  soul  of  man  ? 
God  made  the  soul  of  man.  He  did  not  doom  any ' 
soul  of  man  to  live  as  a Hypothesis  and  Hearsay, 
in  a world  filled  with  such,  and  with  the  fatal  work 
and  fruit  of  such  ! 

But  to  return : This  that  Knox  did  for  his  Nation, 

I say,  we  may  really  call  a resurrection  as  from 
death.  It  was  not  a smooth  business  ; but  it  was 
welcome  surely,  and  cheap  at  that  price,  had  it  been 
far  rougher.  On  the  whole,  cheap  at  any  price 
as  life  is.  The  people  began  to  live : they  needed 
first  of  all  to  do  that,  at  what  cost  and  costs  soever. 
178 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

Scotch  Literature  and  Thought,  Scotch  Industry ; 
James  Watt,  David  Hume,  Walter  Scott,  Robert 
Burns : I find  Knox  and  the  Reformation  acting  in 
the  heart’s  core  of  every  one  of  these  persons  and 
phenomena ; I find  that  without  the  Reformation 
they  would  not  have  been.  Or  what  of  Scotland  ? 
The  Puritanism  of  Scotland  became  that  of  England, 
of  New  England.  A tumult  in  the  High  Church 
of  Edinburgh  spread  into  a universal  battle  and 
struggle  over  all  these  realms; — there  came-out, 
after  fifty-years  struggling,  what  we  all  call  the 
* Glorious  Revolution,’  a Habeas-Corpus  Act,  Free 
Parliaments,  and  much  else  ! — Alas,  is  it  not  too 
true  what  we  said.  That  many  men  in  the  van  do 
always,  like  Russian  soldiers  march  into  the  ditch 
of  Schwiednitz,  and  fill  it  up  with  their  dead  bodies, 
that  the  rear  may  pass-over  them  dry-shod,  and  gain 
the  honour  ? How  many  earnest  rugged  Cromwells, 
Knoxes,  poor  Peasant  Covenanters,  wrestling,  bat- 
tling for  very  life,  in  rough  miry  places,  have  to 
struggle,  and  suffer,  and  fall,  ^ eatly  censured,  he- 
mired, — before  a beautiful  Revolution  of  Eighty- 
eight  can  step- over  them  in  official  pumps  and  silk- 
stockings,  with  universal  three-times-three ! 

It  seems  to  me  hard  measure  that  this  Scottish 
man,  now  after  three-hundred  years,  should  have 
to  plead  like  a culprit  before  the  world;  intrinsi- 
cally for  having  been,  in  such  way  as  it  was  then 
possible  to  be,  the  bravest  of  all  Scotchmen  ! Had 
he  been  a poor  Half-and-half,  he  could  have 
crouched  into  the  corner,  like  so  many  others; 
Scotland  had  not  been  delivered;  and  Knox  had 
been  without  blame.  He  is  the  one  Scotchman  to 
whom,  of  all  others,  his  country  and  the  world  owe 
a debt.  He  has  to  plead  that  Scotland  would  for- 
give him  for  having  been  worth  to  it  any  million 

179 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

‘ unblamable  ’ Scotchmen  that  need  no  forgiveness ! 
He  bared  his  breast  to  the  battle ; had  to  row  in 
F rench  galleys,  wander  forlorn  in*  exile,  in  clouds 
and  storms  ; was  censured,  shot-at  through  his  win- 
dows ; had  a right  sore  fighting  life : if  this  world 
were  his  place  of  recompense,  he  had  made  but  a 
bad  venture  of  it.  I cannot  apologise  for  Knox.  To 
him  it  is  very  indifferent,  these  two-hundred-and- 
fifty  years  or  more,  what  men  say  of  him.  But  we, 
having  got  above  all  those  details  of  his  battle,  and 
living  now  in  clearness  on  the  fruits  of  his  victory, 
we,  for  our  own  sake,  ought  to  look  through  the 
rumours  and  controver,sies  enveloping  the  man, 
into  the  man  himself. 

For  one  thing,  I will  remark  that  this  post  of 
Prophet  to  his  Nation  was  not  of  his  seeking ; Knox 
had  lived  forty  years  quietly  obscure,  before  he 
became  conspicuous.  He  was  the  son  of  poor 
parents ; had  got  a college  education ; become  a 
Priest ; adopted  the  Reformation,  and  seemed  well 
content  to  guide  his  own  steps  by  the  light  of  it, 
nowise  unduly  intruding  it  on  others.  He  had  lived 
as  Tutor  in  gentlemen’s  families ; preaching  when 
any  body  of  persons  wished  to  hear  his  doctrine : 
resolute  he  to  walk  by  the  truth,  and  speak  the 
truth  when  called  to  do  it ; not  ambitious  of  more ; 
not  fancying  himself  capable  of  more.  In  this  en- 
tirely obscure  way  he  had  reached  the  age  of  forty ; 
was  with  the  small  body  of  Reformers  who  were 
standing  siege  in  St.  Andrew’s  Castle, — when  one 
day  in  their  chapel,  the  Preacher  after  finishing  his 
exhortation  to  these  fighters  in  the  forlorn  hope,  said 
suddenly.  That  there  ought  to  be  other  speakers, 
that  all  men  who  had  a priest’s  heart  and  gift  in 
them  ought  now  to  speak  ; — which  gifts  and  heart 
one  of  their  own  number,  John  Knox  the  name  of 
180 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

him,  had : Had  he  not  ? said  the  Preacher,  appeal- 
ing to  all  the  audience:  What  then  is  his  duty? 
The  people  answered  affirmatively ; it  was  a crimi- 
nal forsaking  of  his  post,  if  such  a man  held  the 
word  that  was  in  him  silent.  Poor  Knox  was  obliged 
to  stand-up;  he  attempted  to  reply;  he  could  say 
no  word ; — burst  into  a flood  of  tears,  and  ran  out. 
It  is  worth  remembering,  that  scene.  He  was  in 
grievous  trouble  for  some  days.  He  felt  what  a 
small  faculty  was  his  for  this  great  work.  He  felt 
what  a baptism  he  was  called  to  be  baptised  withal. 
He  ‘ burst  into  tears.’ 

Our  primary  characteristic  of  a Hero,  that  he  is 
sincere,  applies  emphatically  to  Knox.  It  is  not 
denied  anywhere  that  this,  whatever  might  be  his 
other  qualities  or  faults,  is  among  the  truest  of  men. 
With  a singular  instinct  he  holds  to  the  truth  and 
fact ; the  truth  alone  is  there  for  him,  the  rest  a 
mere  shadow  and  deceptive  nonentity.  However 
feeble,  forlorn  the  reality  may  seem,  on  that  and 
that  only  can  he  take  his  stand.  In  the  Galleys  of 
the  River  Loire,  whither  Knox  and  the  others, 
after  their  Castle  of  St.  Andrew’s  was  taken,  had 
been  sent  as  Galley-slaves, — some  officer  or  priest, 
one  day,  presented  them  an  Image  of  the  Virgin 
Mother,  requiring  that  they,  the  blasphemous  here- 
tics, should  do  it  reverence.  Mother  ? Mother  of 
God  ? said  Knox,  when  the  turn  came  to  him  : 
This  is  no  Mother  of  God  : this  is  ‘ a pented  bredd, 
— a piece  of  wood,  I tell  you,  with  paint  on  it ! 
She  is  fitter  for  swimming,  I think,  than  for  being 
worshiped,  added  Knox ; and  flung  the  thing  into 
the  river.  It  was  not  very  cheap  jesting  there  : but 
come  of  it  what  might,  this  thing  to  Knox  was  and 
must  continue  nothing  other  than  the  real  truth ; 
it  was  a pented  bredd : worship  it  he  would  not.  He 

181 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

told  his  fellow-prisoners,  In  this  darkest  time,  to  be 
of  courage ; the  Cause  they  had  was  the  true  one, 
and  must  and  would  prosper ; the  whole  world 
could  not  put  It  down.  Reality  Is  of  God’s  making ; 
It  Is  alone  strong.  How  many  pented  bredds,  pre- 
tending to  be  real,  are  fitter  to  swim  than  to  be 
worshiped  ! — This  Knox  cannot  live  but  by  fact : 
he  clings  to  reality  as  the  shipwrecked  sailor  to  the 
cliff*.  He  is  an  instance  to  us  how  a man,  by  sin- 
cerity itself,  becomes  heroic  : it  is  the  grand  gift  he 
has.  We  find  in  Knox  a good  honest  intellectual 
talent,  no  transcendent  one ; — a narrow,  inconsider- 
able man,  as  compared  with  Luther : but  in  heart- 
felt instinctive  adherence  to  truth,  in  sincerity,  as 
we  say,  he  has  no  superior ; nay,  one  might  ask, 
What  equal  he  has  ? The  heart  of  him  is  of  the  true 
Prophet  cast.  ‘‘He  lies  there,”  said  the  Earl  of 
Morton  at  his  grave,  “ who  never  feared  the  face 
of  man.”  He  resembles,  more  than  any  of  the 
moderns,  an  Old-Hebrew  Prophet.  The  same  in- 
flexibility, intolerance,  rigid  narrow-looking  ad- 
herence to  God’s  truth,  stern  rebuke  in  the  name 
of  God  to  all  that  forsake  truth : an  Old-Hebrew 
Prophet  in  the  guise  of  an  Edinburgh  Minister  of 
the  Sixteenth  Century.  We  are  to  take  him  for 
that ; not  require  him  to  be  other. 

Knox’s  conduct  to  Queen  Mary,  the  harsh  visits 
he  used  to  make  in  her  own  palace,  to  reprove  her 
there,  have  been  much  commented  upon.  Such 
cruelty,  such  coarseness  fills  us  with  indignation. 
On  reading  the  actual  narrative  of  the  business, 
what  Knox  said,  and  what  Knox  meant,  I must  say 
one’s  tragic  feeling  is  rather  disappointed.  They 
are  not  so  coarse,  these  speeches ; they  seem  to  me 
about  as  fine  as  the  circumstances  would  permit ! 
Knox  was  not  there  to  do  the  courtier ; he  came 
182 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

on  another  errand.  Whoever,  reading  these  collo- 
quies of  his  with  the  Queen,  thinks  they  are  vulgar 
insolences  of  a plebeian  priest  to  a delicate  high 
lady,  mistakes  the  purport  and  essence  of  them 
altogether.  It  was  unfortunately  not  possible  to 
be  polite  with  the  Queen  of  Scotland,  unless  one 
proved  untrue  to  the  Nation  and  Cause  of  Scot- 
land. A man  who  did  not  wish  to  see  the  land  of 
his  birth  made  a hunting-field  for  intriguing  ambi- 
tious Guises,  and  the  Cause  of  God  trampled 
underfoot  of  F alsehoods,  F ormulas  and  the  Devil’s 
Cause,  had  no  method  of  making  himself  agreeable  ! 
“ Better  that  women  weep,”  said  Morton,  “ than 
that  bearded  men  be  forced  to  weep.”  Knox  was 
the  constitutional  opposition-party  in  Scotland:  the 
Nobles  of  the  country,  called  by  their  station  to 
take  that  post,  were  not  found  in  it ; Knox  had  to 
go,  or  no  one.  The  hapless  Queen ; — but  the  still 
more  hapless  Country,  if  she  were  made  happy! 
Mary  herself  was  not  without  sharpness  enough, 
among  her  other  qualities : “ Who  are  you,”  said 
she  once,  “ that  presume  to  school  the  nobles  and 
sovereign  of  this  realm?” — “Madam,  a subject 
born  within  the  same,”  answered  he.  Reasonably 
answered  I If  the  ‘subject’  have  truth  to  speak, 
it  is  not  the  ‘ subject’s  ’ footing  that  will  fail  him 
here. — 

We  blame  Knox  for  his  intolerance.  Well,  surely 
it  is  good  that  each  of  us  be  as  tolerant  as  possible. 
Yet,  at  bottom,  after  all  the  talk  there  is  and  has 
been  about  it,  what  is  tolerance  ? Tolerance  has  to 
tolerate  the  unessential ; and  to  see  well  what  that 
is.  Tolerance  has  to  be  noble,  measured,  just  in  its 
very  wrath,  when  it  can  tolerate  no  longer.  But,  on 
the  whole,  we  are  not  altogether  here  to  tolerate ! 
We  are  here  to  resist,  to  control  and  vanquish  withal. 

183 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

We  do  not  ‘tolerate’  Falsehoods,  Thieveries,  Ini- 
quities, when  they  fasten  on  us ; we  say  to  them. 
Thou  art  false,  thou  art  not  tolerable  ! We  are  here 
to  extinguish  Falsehoods,  and  put  an  end  to  them, 
in  some  wise  way ! I will  not  quarrel  so  much 
with  the  way  ; the  doing  of  the  thing  is  our  great 
concern.  In  this  sense  Knox  was,  full  surely, 
intolerant. 

A man  sent  to  row  in  French  Galleys,  and  such 
like,  for  teaching  the  Truth  in  his  own  land,  cannot 
always  be  in  the  mildest  humour ! I am  not  pre- 
pared to  say  that  Knox^had  a soft  temper ; nor  do 
I know  that  he  had  what  we  call  an  ill  temper.  An 
111  nature  he  decidedly  had  not.  Kind  honest  affec- 
tions dwelt  in  the  much-enduring,  hard- worn,  ever- 
battling  man.  That  he  could  rebuke  Queens,  and  had 
such  weight  among  those  proud  turbulent  Nobles, 
proud  enough  whatever  else  they  were ; and  could 
maintain  to  the  end  a kind  of  virtual  Presidency 
and  Sovereignty  in  that  wild  realm,  he  who  was 
only  a subject  born  within  the  same:’  this  of  itself 
will  prove  to  us  that  he  was  found,  close  at  hand, 
to  be  no  mean  acrid  man;  but  at  heart  a healthful, 
strong,  sagacious  man.  Such  alone  can  bear  rule  in 
that  kind.  They  blame  him  for  pulling-down  cathe- 
drals, and  so  forth,  as  if  he  were  a seditious  rioting 
demagogue : precisely  the  reverse  is  seen  to  be  the 
fact,  in  regard  to  cathedrals  and  the  rest  of  it,  if  we 
examine  ! Knox  wanted  no  pulling-down  of  stone 
edifices ; he  wanted  leprosy  and  darkness  to  be 
thrown  out  of  the  lives  of  men.  Tumult  was  not  his 
element ; It  was  the  tragic  feature  of  his  life  that  he 
was  forced  to  dwell  so  much  In  that.  Every  such 
man  is  the  born  enemy  of  Disorder ; hates  to  be  in 
It : but  what  then  ? Smooth  F alsehood  is  not  Order ; 
it  Is  the  general  sumtotal  of  Disorder.  Order  is 
184 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

Truth, — each  thing  standing  on  the  basis  that  belongs 
to  it : Order  and  Falsehood  cannot  subsist  together. 

Withal,  unexpectedly  enough,  this  Knox  has  a vein 
of  drollery  in  him ; which  I like  much,  in  combina- 
tion with  his  other  qualities.  He  has  a true  eye  for 
the  ridiculous.  His  History,  with  its  rough  earnest- 
ness, is  curiously  enlivened  with  this.  When  the 
two  Prelates,  entering  Glasgow  Cathedral,  quarrel 
about  precedence ; march  rapidly  up,  take  to  hust- 
ling one  another,  twitching  one  another’s  rochets, 
and  at  last  flourishing  their  crosiers  like  quarter- 
staves,  it  is  a great  sight  for  him  everyway ! Not 
mockery,  scorn,  bitterness  alone ; though  there  is 
enough  of  that  too.  But  a true,  loving,  illuminating 
laugh  mounts-up  over  the  earnest  visage;  not  a loud 
laugh ; you  would  say,  a laugh  in  the  eyes  most  of 
all.  An  honest-hearted,  brotherly  man ; brother  to 
the  high,  brother  also  to  the  low ; sincere  in  his 
sympathy  with  both.  He  had  his  pipe  of  Bour- 
deaux  too,  we  find,  in  that  old  Edinburgh  house 
of  his;  a cheery  social  man,  with  faces  that  loved 
him  ! They  go  far  wrong  who  think  this  Knox  was 
a gloomy,  spasmodic,  shrieking  fanatic.  Not  at  all: 
he  is  one  of  the  solidest  of  men.  Practical,  cautious- 
hopeful,  patient ; a most  shrewd,  observing,  quietly 
discerning  man.  In  fact,  he  has  very  much  the  type 
of  character  we  assign  to  the  Scotch  at  present : 
a certain  sardonic  taciturnity  is  in  him  ; insight 
enough ; and  a stouter  heart’than  he  himself  knows 
of.  He  has  the  power  of  holding  his  peace  over 
many  things  which  do  not  vitally  concern  him, — 
“They?  what  are  they?  ’ 'But  the  thing  which 
does  vitally  concern  him,  that  thing  he  will  speak 
of ; and  in  a tone  the  whole  world  shall  be  made  to 
hear  : all  the  more  emphatic  for  his  long  silence. 

This  Prophet  of  the  Scotch  is  to  me  no  hateful 

185 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

man  ! — He  had  a sore  fight  of  an  existence ; wrest- 
ling with  Popes  and  Principalities ; in  defeat,  con- 
tention, life-long  struggle ; rowing  as  a galley-slave, 
wandering  as  an  exile.  A sore  fight ; but  he  won  it. 
^‘Have  you  hope?”  they  asked  him  in  his  last 
moment,  when  he  could  no  longer  speak.  He  lifted 
his  finger,  ‘ pointed  upwards  with  his  finger,’  and  so 
died.  Honour  to  him.  His  works  have  not  died. 
The  letter  of  his  work  dies,  as  of  all  men’s ; but  the 
spirit  of  it  never. 

One  word  more  as  to  the  letter  of  Knox’s  work. 
The  unforgivable  offence  in  him  is,  that  he  wished 
to  set-up  Priests  over  the  head  of  Kings.  In  other 
words,  he  strove  to  make  the  Government  of  Scot- 
land a Theocracy.  This  indeed  is  properly  the  sum 
of  his  offences,  the  essential  sin ; for  which  what 
pardon  can  there  be  ? It  is  most  true,  he  did,  at 
bottom,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  mean  a Theo- 
cracy, or  Government  of  God.  He  did  mean  that 
Kings  and  Prime  Ministers,  and  all  manner  of  per- 
sons, in  public  or  private,  diplomatising  or  whatever 
else  they  might  be  doing,  should  walk  according  to 
the  Gospel  of  Christ,  and  understand  that  this  was 
their  Law,  supreme  over  all  laws.  He  hoped  once 
to  see  such  a thing  realised  ; and  the  Petition,  Thy 
Kingdom  come,  no  longer  an  empty  word.  He  was 
sore  grieved  when  he  saw  greedy  worldly  Barons 
clutch-hold  of  the  Church’s  property ; when  he  ex- 
postulated that  it  was  not  secular  property,  that  it 
was  spiritual  property,  and  should  be  turned  to  true 
churchly  uses,  education,  schools,  worship ; — and 
the  Regent  Murray  had  to  answer,  with  a shrug  of 
the  shoulders,  “ It  is  a devout  imagination  ! ” This 
was  Knox’s  scheme  of  right  and  truth ; this  he  zeal- 
ously endeavoured  after,  to  realise  it.  If  we  think 
his  scheme  of  truth  was  too  narrow,  was  not  true, 
186 


THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 

we  may  rejoice  that  he  could  not  realise  it;  that  it 
remained,  after  two  centuries  of  effort,  unrealisable, 
and  is  a ‘ devout  imagination  ^ still.  But  how  shall 
we  blame  him  for  struggling  to  realise  it?  Theo- 
cracy, Government  of  God,  is  precisely  the  thing 
to  be  struggled  for ! All  Prophets,  zealous  Priests, 
are  there  for  that  purpose.  Hildebrand  wished  a 
Theocracy ; Cromwell  wished  it,  fought  for  it ; 
Mahomet  attained  it.  Nay,  is  it  not  what  all  zealous 
men,  whether  called  Priests,  Prophets,  or  whatso- 
ever else  called,  do  essentially  wish,  and  must  wish  ? 
That  right  and  truth,  or  God’s  Law,  reign  supreme 
among  men,  this  is  the  Heavenly  Ideal  (well  named 
in  Knox’s  time,  and  namable  in  all  times,  a revealed 
* Will  of  God  ’)  towards  which  the  Reformer  will 
insist  that  all  be  more  and  more  approximated.  All 
true  Reformers,  as  I said,  are  by  the  nature  of  them 
Priests,  and  strive  for  a Theocracy* 

How  far  such  Ideals  can  ever  be  introduced 
into  Practice,  and  at  what  point  our  impatience 
with  their  non-introduction  ought  to  begin,  is 
always  a question.  I think  we  may  say  safely.  Let 
them  introduce  themselves  as  far  as  they  can  con- 
trive to  do  it ! If  they  are  the  true  faith  of  men, 
all  men  ought  to  be  more  or  less  impatient  always 
where  they  are  not  found  introduced.  There  will 
never  be  wanting  Regent-Murrays  enough  to  shrug 
their  shoulders,  and  say,  A devout  imagination  ! ” 
We  will  praise  the  Hero-priest  rather,  who  does 
what  is  in  him  to  bring  them  in ; and  wears-out,  in 
toil,  calumny,  contradiction,  a noble  life,  to  make 
a God’s  Kingdom  of  this  Earth.  The  Earth  will 
not  become  too  godlike  ! 


187 


LECTURE  FIVE 

THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF 
LETTERS,  JOHNSON, 
ROUSSEAU,  BURNS 

Tuesday,  19th  May,  1840 


LECTURE  V.  THE  HERO 
AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

HERO-GODS,  Prophets,  Poets,  Priests 
are  forms  of  Heroism  that  belong  to 
the  old  ages,  make  their  appearance  in 
the  remotest  times ; some  of  them  have 
ceased  to  be  possible  long  since,  and  cannot  any 
more  show  themselves  in  this  world.  The  Hero  as 
Man  of  Letters,  again,  of  which  class  we  are  to  speak 
today,  is  altogether  a product  of  these  new  ages ; 
and  so  long  as  the  wondrous  art  of  Writing,  or  of 
Ready-writing  which  we  call  Printing,  subsists,  he 
may  be  expected  to  continue,  as  one  of  the  main 
forms  of  Heroism  for  all  future  ages.  He  is,  in 
various  respects,  a very  singular  phenomenon. 

He  is  new,  I say ; he  has  hardly  lasted  above  a 
century  in  the  world  yet.  Never,  till  about  a hun- 
dred years  ago,  was  there  seen  any  figure  of  a Great 
iSoul  living  apart  in  that  anomalous  manner;  en- 
deavouring to  speak-forth  the  inspiration  that  was 
in  him  by  Printed  Books,  and  find  place  and  sub- 
sistence by  what  the  world  would  please  to  give 
him  for  doing  that.  Much  had  been  sold  and 
bought,  and  left  to  make  its  own  bargain  in  the 
marketplace ; but  the  inspired  wisdom  of  a Heroic 
Soul  never  till  then,  in  that  naked  manner.  He, 
with  his  copy-rights  and  copy- wrongs,  in  his  squalid 
garret,  in  his  rusty  coat ; ruling  (for  this  is  what  he 
does),  from  his  grave,  after  death,  whole  nations 
and  generations  who  would,  or  would  not,  give 
him  bread  while  living, — is  a rather  curious  spec- 
tacle ! Few  shapes  of  Heroism  can  be  more  un- 
expected. 

Alas,  the  Hero  from  of  old  has  had  to  cramp 
himself  into  strange  shapes : the  world  knows  not 
well  at  any  time  what  to  do  with  him,  so  foreign 

191 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

is  his  aspect  in  the  world ! It  seemed  absurd  to 
us,  that  men,  in  their  rude  admiration,  should  take 
some  wise  great  Odin  for  a god,  and  worship  him 
as  such;  some  wise  great  Mahomet  for  one  god- 
inspired,  and  religiously  follow  his  Law  for  twelve 
centuries : but  that  a wise  great  Johnson,  a Burns, 
a Rousseau,  should  be  taken  for  some  idle  nonde- 
script, extant  in  the  world  to  amuse  idleness,  and 
have  a few  coins  and  applauses  thrown  him,  that 
he  might  live  thereby;  this  perhaps,  as  before  hinted, 
will  one  day  seem  a still  absurder  phasis  of  things ! — 
Meanwhile,  since  it  is  the  spiritual  always  that  de- 
termines the  material,  this  same  Man-of-Letters 
Hero  must  be  regarded  as  our  most  important 
modern  person.  He,  such  as  he  may  be,  is  the  soul 
of  all.  What  he  teaches,  the  whole  world  will  do 
and  make.  The  world’s  manner  of  dealing  with  him 
is  the  most  significant  feature  of  the  world’s  general 
position.  Looking  well  at  his  life,  we  may  get  a 
glance,  as  deep  as  is  readily  possible  for  us,  into  the 
life  of  those  singular  centuries  which  have  produced 
him,  in  which  we  ourselves  live  and  work. 

There  are  genuine  Men  of  Letters,  and  not 
genuine ; as  in  every  kind  there  is  a genuine  and 
a spurious.  If  Hero  be  taken  to  mean  genuine,  then 
I say  the  Hero  as  Man  of  Letters  will  be  found 
discharging  a function  for  us  which  is  ever  honour- 
able, ever  the  highest ; and  was  once  well  known 
to  be  the  highest.  He  is  uttering-forth,  in  such  way 
as  he  has,  the  inspired  soul  of  him ; all  that  a man, 
in  any  case,  can  do.  I say  inspired  ; for  what  we  call 
‘ originality,’  ‘ sincerity,’  ‘ genius,’  the  heroic  quality 
we  have  no  good  name  for,  signifies  that.  The  Hero 
is  he  who  lives  in  the  inward  sphere  of  things,  in 
the  True,  Divine  and  Eternal,  which  exists  always, 
unseen  to  most,  under  the  Temporary,  Trivial ; his 
192 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

being  is  in  that ; he  declares  that  abroad,  by  act  or 
speech  as  it  may  be,  in  declaring  himself  abroad. 
His  life,  as  we  said  before,  is  a piece  of  the  ever- 
lasting heart  of  Nature  herself : all  men’s  life  is, — 
but  the  weak  many  know  not  the  fact,  and  are  un- 
true to  it,  in  most  times  ; the  strong  few  are  strong, 
heroic,  perennial,  because  it  cannot  be  hidden  from 
them.  The  Man  of  Letters,  like  every  Hero,  is  there 
to  proclaim  this  in  such  sort  as  he  can.  Intrinsi- 
cally it  is  the  same  function  which  the  old  gene- 
rations named  a man  Prophet,  Priest,  Divinity  for 
doing ; which  all  manner  of  Heroes,  by  speech  or 
by  act,  are  sent  into  the  world  to  do. 

Fichte  the  German  Philosopher  delivered,  some 
forty  years  ago  at  Erlangen,  a highly  remarkable 
Course  of  Lectures  on  this  subject : ^Ueber  das  Wesen 
des  Gelehrten,  On  the  Nature  of  the  Literary  Man/ 
F ichte,  in  conformity  with  theTranscendental  Philo- 
sophy, of  which  he  was  a distinguished  teacher,  de- 
clares first : That  all  things  which  we  see  or  work 
with  in  this  Earth,  especially  we  ourselves  and  all 
persons,  are  as  a kind  of  vesture  or  sensuous  Ap- 
pearance : that  under  all  there  lies,  as  the  essence 
of  them,  what  he  calls  the  ^Divine  Idea  of  the 
World  ’ ; this  is  the  Reality  which  ^lies  at  the  bottom 
of  all  Appearance.’  To  the  mass  of  men  no  such 
Divine  Idea  is  recognisable  in  the  world ; they  live 
merely,  says  Fichte,  among  the  superficialities,  prac- 
ticalities and  shows  of  the  world,  not  dreaming  that 
there  is  anything  divine  under  them.  But  the  Man 
of  Letters  is  sent  hither  specially  that  he  may  dis- 
cern for  himself,  and  make  manifest  to  us,  this  same 
Divine  Idea : in  every  new  generation  it  will  mani- 
fest itself  in  a new  dialect ; and  he  is  there  for  the 
purpose  of  doing  that.  Such  is  F ichte’s  phraseology ; 
with  which  we  need  not  quarrel.  It  is  his  way  of 
Q 193 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

naming  what  I here,  by  other  words,  am  striving 
imperfectly  to  name ; what  there  Is  at  present  no 
name  for:  The  unspeakable  Divine  Significance, 
full  of  splendour,  of  wonder  and  terror,  that  lies  in 
the  being  of  every  man,  of  every  thing, — the  Pre- 
sence of  the  God  who  made  every  man  and  thing. 
Mahomet  taught  this  in  his  dialect ; Odin  in  his : it 
is  the  thing  which  all  thinking  hearts,  in  one  dialect 
or  another,  are  here  to  teach.  Fichte  calls  the  Man 
of  Letters,  therefore,  a Prophet,  or  as  he  prefers  to 
phrase  it,  a Priest,  continually  unfolding  the  God- 
like to  men : Men  of  Letters  are  a perpetual  Priest- 
hood, from  age  to  age,  teaching  all  men  that  a God 
is  still  present  in  their  life;  that  all  ‘Appearance,’ 
whatsoever  we  see  In  the  world,  is  but  as  a vesture 
for  the  ‘ Divine  Idea  of  the  World,’  for  ‘that  which 
lies  at  the  bottom  of  Appearance.’  In  the  true  Lite- 
rary Man  there  is  thus  ever,  acknowledged  or  not 
by  the  world,  a sacredness  : he  is  the  light  of  the 
world ; the  world’s  Priest ; — guiding  it,  like  a sacred 
Pillar  of  Fire,  In  its  dark  pilgrimage  through  the 
waste  ef  Time.  Fichte  discriminates  with  sharp 
zeal  the  true  Literary  Man,  what  we  here  call  the 
Hero  as  Man  of  Letters,  from  multitudes  of  false 
unheroic.  Whoever  lives  not  wholly  In  this  Divine 
Idea,  or  living  partially  in  it,  struggles  not,  as  for  the 
one  good,  to  live  wholly  in  it, — he  is,  let  him  live 
where  else  he  like,  in  what  pomps  and  prosperities 
he  like,  no  Literary  Man;  he  is,  says  Fichte,  a 
‘ Bungler,  Stamper/  Or  at  best,  if  he  belong  to  the 
prosaic  provinces,  he  may  be  a ‘ Hodman’;  Fichte 
even  calls  him  elsewhere  a ‘ Nonentity,’  and  has  in 
short  no  mercy  for  him,  no  wish  that  he  should  con- 
tinue happy  among  us!  This  is  Fichte’s  notion  of 
the  Man  of  Letters.  It  means,  in  its  own  form, 
precisely  what  we  here  mean. 

194 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

In  this  point  of  view,  I consider  that,  for  the  last 
hundred  years,  by  far  the  notablest  of  all  Literary 
Men  is  Fichte’s  countryman,  Goethe.  To  that  man 
too,  in  a strange  way,  there  was  given  what  we  may 
call  a life  in  the  Divine  Idea  of  the  World ; vision 
of  the  inward  divine  mystery : and  strangely,  out 
of  his  Books,  the  world  rises  imaged  once  more  as 
godlike,  the  workmanship  and  temple  of  a God» 
Illuminated  all,  not  in  fierce  impure  fire-splendour 
as  of  Mahomet,  but  in  mild  celestial  radiance 
really  a Prophecy  in  these  most  unprophetic  times ; 
to  my  mind,  by  far  the  greatest,  though  one  of  the 
quietest,  among  all  the  great  things  that  have  come 
to  pass  in  them.  Our  chosen  specimen  of  the  Hero 
as  Literary  Man  would  be  this  Goethe.  And  it  were 
a very  pleasant  plan  for  me  here  to  discourse  of  his 
heroism : for  I consider  him  to  be  a true  Hero ; 
heroic  in  what  he  said  and  did,  and  perhaps  still 
more  in  what  he  did  not  say  and  did  not  do ; to 
me  a noble  spectacle : a great  heroic  ancient  man, 
speaking  and  keeping  silence  as  an  ancient  Hero, 
in  the  guise  of  a most  modern,  high-bred,  high- 
cultivated  Man  of  Letters  ! We  have  had  no  such 
spectacle ; no  man  capable  of  affording  such,  for  the 
last  hundred-and-fifty  years.  But  at  present,  such 
is  the  general  state  of  knowledge  about  Goethe,  it 
were  worse  than  useless  to  attempt  speaking  of  him 
in  this  case.  Speak  as  I might,  Goethe,  to  the  great 
majority  of  you,  would  remain  problematic,  vague ; 
no  impression  but  a false  one  could  be  realised.  Him 
we  must  leave  to  future  times.  Johnson,  Burns, 
Rousseau,  three  great  figures  from  a prior  time, 
from  a far  inferior  state  of  circumstances,  will  suit 
us  better  here.  Three  men  of  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury ; the  conditions  of  their  life  far  more  resemble 
what  those  of  ours  still  are  in  England,  than  what 

195 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Goethe’s  in  Germany  were.  Alas,  these  men  did 
not  conquer  like  him ; they  fought  bravely,  and 
fell.  They  were  not  heroic  bringers  of  the  light,  but 
heroic  seekers  of  it.  They  lived  under  galling  con- 
ditions ; struggling  as  under  mountains  of  impedi- 
ment, and  could  not  unfold  themselves  into  clear- 
ness, or  victorious  interpretation  of  that  ‘Divine 
Idea.’  It  is  rather  the  Tombs  of  three  Literary 
Heroes  that  I have  to  show  you.  There  are  the 
monumental  heaps,  under  which  three  spiritual 
giants  lie  buried.  Very  mournful,  but  also  great 
and  full  of  interest  for  us.  We  will  linger  by  them 
for  a while. 

Complaint  is  often  made,  in  these  times,  of  what 
we  call  the  disorganised  condition  of  society : how 
ill  many  arranged  forces  of  society  fulfil  their  work ; 
how  many  powerful  forces  are  seen  working  in  a 
wasteful,  chaotic,  altogether  unarranged  manner. 
It  is  too  just  a complaint,  as  we  all  know.  But 
perhaps  if  we  look  at  this  of  Books  and  the  Writers 
of  Books,  we  shall  find  here,  as  it  were,  the  sum- 
mary of  all  other  disorganisation ; — a sort  of  heart, 
from  which  and  to  which  all  other  confusion  cir- 
culates in  the  world ! Considering  what  Book- 
writers  do  in  the  world,  and  what  the  world  does 
with  Book- writers,  I should  say.  It  is  the  most  ano- 
malous thing  the  world  at  present  has  to  show. — 
We  should  get  into  a sea  far  beyond  sounding,  did 
we  attempt  to  give  account  of  this ; but  we  must 
glance  at  it  for  the  sake  of  our  subject.  The  worst 
element  in  the  life  of  these  three  Literary  Heroes 
was,  that  they  found  their  business  and  position 
such  a chaos.  On  the  beaten  road  there  is  tolerable 
travelling ; but  it  is  sore  work,  and  many  have  to 
perish,  fashioning  a path  through  the  impassable  ! 
196 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

Our  pious  Fathers,  feeling  well  what  importance  lay 
in  the  speaking  of  man  to  men,  founded  churches, 
made  endowments,  regulations ; everywhere  in  the 
civilised  world  there  is  a Pulpit,  environed  with  all 
manner  of  complex  dignified  appurtenances  and 
furtherances,  that  therefrom  a man  with  the  tongue 
may,  to  best  advantage,  address  his  fellow- men. 
They  felt  that  this  was  the  most  important  thing ; 
that  without  this  there  was  no  good  thing.  It  is  a 
right  pious  work,  that  of  theirs ; beautiful  to  be- 
hold ! But  now  with  the  art  of  Writing,  with  the 
art  of  Printing,  a total  change  has  come  over  that 
business.  The  Writer  of  a Book,  is  not  he  a Preacher 
preaching  not  to  this  parish  or  that,  on  this  day  or 
that,  but  to  all  men  in  all  times  and  places  ? Surely 
it  is  of  the  last  importance  that  he  do  his  work 
right,  whoever  do  it  wrong ; — that  the  eye  report 
not  falsely,  for  then  all  the  other  members  are 
astray  ! Well ; how  he  may  do  his  work,  whether 
he  do  it  right  or  wrong,  or  do  it  at  all,  is  a point 
which  no  man  in  the  world  has  taken  the  pains  to 
think  of.  To  a certain  shopkeeper,  trying  to  get 
some  money  for  his  books,  if  lucky,  he  is  of  some 
importance ; to  no  other  man  of  any.  Whence  he 
came,  whither  he  is  bound,  by  what  ways  he  arrived, 
by  what  he  might  be  furthered  on  his  course,  no 
one  asks.  He  is  an  accident  in  society.  He  wan- 
ders like  a wild  Ishmaelite,  in  a world  of  which  he 
is  as  the  spiritual  light,  either  the  guidance  or  the 
misguidance ! 

Certainly  the  Art  of  Writing  is  the  most  mira- 
culous of  all  things  man  has  devised.  Odin’s  Runes 
were  the  first  form  of  the  work  of  a Hero  ; Books, 
written  words,  are  still  miraculous  Runes,  the  latest 
form ! In  Books  lies  the  soul  of  the  whole  Past  Time ; 
the  articulate  audible  voice  of  the  Past,  when  the 

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HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

body  and  material  substance  of  it  has  altogether 
vanished  like  a dream.  Mighty  fleets  and  armies, 
harbours  and  arsenals,  vast  cities,  high-domed, 
many-engined, — they  are  precious,  great : but  what 
do  they  become  ? Agamemnon,  the  many  Agamem- 
nons,  Pericleses,  and  their  Greece  ; all  is  gone  now 
to  some  ruined  fragments,  dumb  mournful  wrecks 
and  blocks : but  the  Books  of  Greece  ! There 
Greece,  to  every  thinker,  still  very  literally  lives  ; 
can  be  called-up  again  into  life.  No  magic  Rune  is 
stranger  than  a Book.  All  that  Mankind  has  done, 
thought,  gained  or  been ; it  is  lying  as  in  magic 
preservation  in  the  pages  of  Books.  They  are  the 
chosen  possession  of  men. 

Do  not  Books  still  accomplish  miracles,  as  Runes 
were  fabled  to  do?  They  persuade  men.  Not  the 
wretchedest  circulating-library  novel,  which  foolish 
girls  thumb  and  con  in  remote  villages,  but  will  help 
to  regulate  the  actual  practical  weddings  and  house- 
holds of  those  foolish  girls.  So  ‘Celia’  felt,  so  ‘Clif- 
ford ’ acted : the  foolish  Theorem  of  Life,  stamped 
into  those  young  brains,  comes  out  as  a solid  Prac- 
tice one  day.  Consider  whether  any  Rune  in  the 
wildest  imagination  of  Mythologist  ever  did  such 
wonders  as,  on  the  actual  firm  Earth,  some  Books 
have  done!  What  built  St.  Paul’s  Cathedral?  Look 
at  the  heart  of  the  matter,  it  was  that  divine  Hebrew 
Book, — the  word  partly  of  the  man  Moses,  an  out- 
law tending  his  Midianitish  herds,  four-thousand 
years  ago,  in  the  wildernesses  of  Sinai ! It  is  the 
strangest  of  things,  yet  nothing  is  truer.  With  the 
art  of  Writing,  of  which  Printing  is  a simple,  an  in- 
evitable and  comparatively  insignificant  corollary, 
the  true  reign  of  miracles  for  mankind  commenced. 
It  related,  with  a wondrous  new  contiguity  and 
perpetual  closeness,  the  Past  and  Distant  with  the 
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THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

Present  in  time  and  place ; all  times  and  all  places 
with  this  our  actual  Here  and  Now.  All  things 
were  altered  for  men;  all  modes  of  important 
work  of  men  : teaching,  preaching,  governing,  and 
all  else. 

To  look  at  Teaching,  for  instance.  Universities 
are  a notable,  respectable  product  of  the  modern 
ages.  Their  existence  too  is  modified,  to  the  very 
basis  of  it,  by  the  existence  of  Books.  Universities 
arose  while  there  were  yet  no  Books  procurable ; 
while  a man,  for  a single  Book,  had  to  give  an  estate 
of  land.  That,  in  those  circumstances,  when  a man 
had  some  knowledge  to  communicate,  he  should  do 
it  by  gathering  the  learners  round  him,  face  to  face, 
was  a necessity  for  him.  If  you  wanted  to  know 
what  Abelard  knew,  you  must  go  and  listen  to 
Abelard.  Thousands,  as  many  as  thirty  thousand, 
went  to  hear  Abelard  and  that  metaphysical  theo- 
logy of  his.  And  now  for  any  other  teacher  who 
had  also  something  of  his  own  to  teach,  there  was 
a great  convenience  opened : so  many  thousands 
eager  to  learn  were  already  assembled  yonder;  of  all 
places  the  best  place  for  him  was  that.  F or  any  third 
teacher  it  was  better  still;  and  grew  ever  the  better, 
the  more  teachers  there  came.  It  only  needed  now 
that  the  King  took  notice  of  this  new  phenomenon ; 
combined  or  agglomerated  the  various  schools  into 
one  school ; gave  it  edifices,  privileges,  encourage- 
ments, and  named  it  Universitas,  or  School  of  all 
Sciences : the  University  of  Paris,  in  its  essential 
characters,  was  there.  The  model  of  all  subsequent 
Universities ; which  down  even  to  these  days,  for  six 
centuries  now,  have  gone  on  to  found  themselves. 
Such,  I conceive,  was  the  origin  of  Universities. 

It  is  clear,  however,  that  with  this  simple  cir- 
cumstance, facility  of  getting  Books,  the  whole 

199 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

conditions  of  the  business  from  top  to  bottom  were 
changed.  Once  invent  Printing,  you  metamorphosed 
all  Universities,  or  superseded  them  ! The  Teacher 
needed  not  now  to  gather  men  personally  round  him, 
that  he  might  speak  to  them  what  he  knew . print  it  in 
a Book,  and  all  learners  far  and  wide,  for  a trifle,  had 
it  each  at  his  own  fireside,  much  more  effectually 
to  learn  it ! — Doubtless  there  is  still  peculiar  virtue 
in  Speech  ; even  writers  of  Books  may  still,  in  some 
circumstances,  find  it  convenient  to  speak  also, — 
witness  our  present  meeting  here  ! There  is,  one 
would  say,  and  must  ever  remain  while  man  has  a 
tongue,  a distinct  province  for  Speech  as  well  as  for 
Writing  and  Printing.  In  regard  to  all  things  this 
must  remain ; to  Universities  among  others.  But 
the  limits  of  the  two  have  nowhere  yet  been  pointed 
out,  ascertained ; much  less  put  in  practice : the 
University  which  would  completely  take-in  that 
great  new  fact,  of  the  existence  of  Printed  Books, 
and  stand  on  a clear  footing  for  the  Nineteenth 
Century  as  the  Paris  one  did  for  the  Thirteenth, 
has  not  yet  come  into  existence.  If  we  think  of  it, 
all  that  a University,  or  final  highest  School  can  do 
for  us,  is  still  but  what  the  first  School  began  doing, — 
teach  us  to  read.  We  learn  to  read,  in  various  lan- 
guages, in  various  sciences ; we  learn  the  alphabet 
and  letters  of  all  manner  of  Books.  But  the  place 
where  we  are  to  get  knowledge,  even  theoretic 
knowledge,  is  the  Books  themselves ! It  depends 
on  what  we  read,  after  all  manner  of  Professors 
have  done  their  best  for  us.  The  true  University  of 
these  days  is  a Collection  of  Books. 

But  to  the  Church  itself,  as  I hinted  already,  all 
is  changed,  in  its  preaching,  in  its  working,  by  the 
introduction  of  Books.  The  Church  is  the  work- 
ing recognised  Union  of  our  Priests  or  Prophets,  of 
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THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

those  who  by  wise  teaching  guide  the  souls  of  men. 
While  there  was  no  Writing,  even  while  there  was 
no  Easy-writing,  or  Printing,  the  preaching  of  the 
voice  was  the  natural  sole  method  of  performing 
this.  But  now  with  Books  ! — He  that  can  write  a 
true  Book,  to  persuade  England,  is  not  he  the 
Bishop  and  Archbishop,  the  Primate  of  England 
and  of  all  England  ? I many  a time  say,  the  writers 
of  Newspapers,  Pamphlets,  Poems,  Books,  these  are 
the  real  working  effective  Church  of  a modern 
country.  Nay,  not  only  our  preaching,  but  even 
our  worship,  is  not  it  too  accomplished  by  means  of 
Printed  Books  ? The  noble  sentiment  which  a gifted 
soul  has  clothed  for  us  in  melodious  words,  which 
brings  melody  into  our  hearts, — is  not  this  essentially, 
if  we  will  understand  it,  of  the  nature  of  worship  ? 
There  are  many,  in  all  countries,  who,  in  this  con- 
fused time,  have  no  other  method  of  worship.  He 
who,  in  any  way,  shows  us  better  than  we  knew 
before  that  a lily  of  the  fields  is  beautiful,  does  he 
not  show  it  us  as  an  efiluence  of  the  Fountain  of  all 
Beauty ; as  the  handwriting,  made  visible  there,  of 
the  great  Maker  of  the  Universe  ? He  has  sung 
for  us,  made  us  sing  with  him,  a little  verse  of  a 
sacred  Psalm.  Essentially  so.  How  much  more  he 
who  sings,  who  says,  or  in  any  way  brings  home  to 
our  heart  the  noble  doings,  feelings,  darings  and 
endurances  of  a brother  man ! He  has  verily 
touched  our  hearts  as  with  a live  coal  from  the  altar. 
Perhaps  there  is  no  worship  more  authentic. 
Literature,  so  far  as  it  is  Literature,  is  an  ‘ apo- 
calypse of  Nature,’ a revealing  of  the  ‘open  secret.’ 
It  may  well  enough  be  named,  in  Fichte’s  style, 
a ‘ continuous  revelation  ’ of  the  Godlike  in  the 
Terrestrial  and  Common.  The  Godlike  does  ever, 
in  very  truth,  endure  there  ; is  brought  out,  now  in 

201 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

this  dialect,  now  In  that,  with  various  degrees  of 
clearness : all  true  gifted  Singers  and  Speakers  are, 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  doing  so.  The  dark 
stormful  indignation  of  a Byron,  so  wayward  and 
perverse,  may  have  touches  of  it ; nay,  the  withered 
mockery  of  a French  sceptic, — his  mockery  of  the 
False,  a love  and  worship  of  the  True.  How  much 
more  the  sphere-harmony  of  a Shakspeare,  of  a 
Goethe;  the  cathedral-music  of  a Milton!  They 
are  something  too,  those  humble  genuine  lark-notes 
of  a Burns, — skylark,  starting  from  the  humble 
furrow,  far  overhead  into  the  blue  depths,  and 
singing  to  us  so  genuinely  there  I For  all  true 
singing  is  of  the  nature  of  worship  ; as  indeed  all 
true  working  may  be  said  to  be, — whereof  such 
singing  is  but  the  record,  and  fit  melodious  repre- 
sentation, to  us.  Fragments  of  a real  ‘Church 
Liturgy’  and  ‘Body  of  Homilies,’  strangely  dis- 
guised from  the  common  eye,  are  to  be  found 
weltering  in  that  huge  froth-ocean  of  Printed 
Speech  we  loosely  call  Literature  ! Books  are  our 
Church  too. 

Or  turning  now  to  the  Government  of  men. 
Witenagemote,  old  Parliament,  was  a great  thing. 
The  aflFairs  of  the  nation  were  there  deliberated 
and  decided  ; what  we  were  to  do  as  a nation.  But 
does  not,  though  the  name  Parliament  subsists,  the 
parliamentary  debate  go  on  now,  everywhere  and 
at  all  times,  in  a far  more  comprehensive  way,  out 
of  Parliament  altogether  ? Burke  said  there  were 
Three  Estates  In  Parliament ; but.  In  the  Reporters’ 
Gallery  yonder,  there  sat  a Fourth  Estate  more  im- 
portant far  than  they  all.  It  is  not  a figure  of 
speech,  or  a witty  saying ; It  is  a literal  fact, — very 
momentous  to  us  In  these  times.  Literature  is  our 
Parliament  too.  Printing,  which  comes  necessarily 
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THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

out  of  Writing,  I say  often,  Is  equivalent  to  Demo- 
cracy: invent  Writing,  Democracy  is  inevitable. 
Writing  brings  Printing;  brings  universal  every-day 
extempore  Printing,  as  we  see  at  present.  Who- 
ever can  speak,  speaking  now  to  the  whole  nation, 
becomes  a power,  a branch  of  government,  with 
inalienable  weight  in  law-making,  in  all  acts  of 
authority.  It  matters  not  what  rank  he  has,  what 
revenues  or  garnitures  : the  requisite  thing  is,  that 
he  have  a tongue  which  others  will  listen  to ; this 
and  nothing  more  is  requisite.  The  nation  is 
governed  by  all  that  has  tongue  in  the  nation : 
Democracy  is  virtually  there.  Add  only,  that  what- 
soever power  exists  will  have  itself,  by  and  by, 
organised ; working  secretly  under  bandages,  ob- 
scurations, obstructions,  it  will  never  rest  till  it  get 
to  work  free,  unincumbered,  visible  to  all.  De- 
mocracy virtually  extant  will  insist  on  becoming 
palpably  extant. — 

On  all  sides,  are  we  not  driven  to  the  conclusion 
that,  of  the  things  which  man  can  do  or  make  here 
below,  by  far  the  most  momentous,  wonderful  and 
worthy  are  the  things  we  call  Books  ! Those  poor 
bits  of  rag-paper  with  black  ink  on  them  ; — from 
the  Daily  Newspaper  to  the  sacred  Hebrew  Book, 
what  have  theynot  done,  what  are  they  not  doing ! — 
For  indeed,  whatever  be  the  outward  form  of  the 
thing  (bits  of  paper,  as  we  say,  and  black  ink),  is 
it  not  verily,  at  bottom,  the  highest  act  of  man’s 
faculty  that  produces  a Book  ? It  is  the  Thought  of 
man ; the  true  thaumaturgic  virtue ; by  which  man 
works  all  things  whatsoever.  All  that  he  does,  and 
brings  to  pass,  is  the  vesture  of  a Thought.  This 
London  City,  with  all  its  houses,  palaces,  steam- 
engines,  cathedrals,  and  huge  immeasurable  traffic 
and  tumult,  what  is  It  but  a Thought,  but  millions 

203 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

of  Thoughts  made  into  One ; — a huge  immeasur- 
able  Spirit  of  a Thought,  embodied  in  brick,  in 
iron,  smoke,  dust.  Palaces,  Parliaments,  Hackney 
Coaches,  Katherine  Docks,  and  the  rest  of  it ! Not 
a brick  was  made  but  some  man  had  to  think  of  the 
making  of  that  brick. — The  thing  we  called  ‘ bits  of 
paper  with  traces  of  black  ink,’  is  the  purest  em- 
bodiment a Thought  of  man  can  have.  No  wonder 
it  is,  in  all  ways,  the  activest  and  noblest. 

All  this,  of  the  importance  and  supreme  import- 
ance of  the  Man  of  Letters  in  modern  Society, 
and  how  the  Press  is  to  such  a degree  superseding 
the  Pulpit,  the  Senate,  the  Senatus  Academicus  and 
much  else,  has  been  admitted  for  a good  while ; 
and  recognised  often  enough,  in  late  times,  with  a 
sort  of  sentimental  triumph  and  wonderment.  It 
seems  to  me,  the  Sentimental  by  and  by  will  have 
to  give  place  to  the  Practical.  If  Men  of  Letters 
are  so  incalculably  influential,  actually  performing 
such  work  for  us  from  age  to  age,  and  even  from 
day  to  day,  then  I think  we  may  conclude  that 
Men  of  Letters  will  not  always  wander  like  unre- 
cognised unregulated  Ishmaelites  among  us  ! What- 
soever thing,  as  I said  above,  has  virtual  unnoticed 
power  will  cast-off  its  wrappages,  bandages,  and 
step-forth  one  day  with  palpably  articulated,  uni- 
versally visible  power.  That  one  man  wear  the 
clothes,  and  take  the  wages,  of  a function  which  is 
done  by  quite  another : there  can  be  no  profit  in 
this ; this  is  not  right,  it  is  wrong.  And  yet,  alas,  the 
making  of  it  right, — what  a business,  for  long  times 
to  come ! Sure  enough,  this  that  we  call  Organisa- 
tion of  the  Literary  Guild  is  still  a great  way  off, 
incumbered  with  all  manner  of  complexities.  If 
you  asked  me  what  were  the  best  possible  organi- 
sation for  the  Men  of  Letters  in  modern  society ; 
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THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

the  arrangement  of  furtherance  and  regulation, 
grounded  the  most  accurately  on  the  actual  facts 
of  their  position  and  of  the  world’s  position, — T 
should  beg  to  say  that  the  problem  far  exceeded  my 
faculty ! It  is  not  one  man’s  faculty ; it  is  that  of 
many  successive  men  turned  earnestly  upon  it,  that 
will  bring-out  even  an  approximate  solution.  What 
the  best  arrangement  were,  none  of  us  could  say. 
But  if  you  ask.  Which  is  the  worst  ? I answer ; This 
which  we  now  have,  that  Chaos  should  sit  umpire 
in  it ; this  is  the  worst.  To  the  best,  or  any  good 
one,  there  is  yet  a long  way. 

One  remark  I must  not  omit,  That  royal  or  par- 
liamentary grants  of  money  are  by  no  means  the 
chief  thing  wanted ! To  give  our  Men  of  Letters 
stipends,  endowments  and  all  furtherance  of  cash, 
will  do  little  towards  the  business.  On  the  whole, 
one  is  weary  of  hearing  about  the  omnipotence  of 
money.  I will  say  rather  that,  for  a genuine  man,  it 
is  no  evil  to  be  poor ; that  there  ought  to  be  Literary 
Men  poor, — to  show  whether  they  are  genuine  or 
not ! Mendicant  Orders,  bodies  of  good  men  doomed 
to  beg^  were  instituted  in  the  Christian  Church  ; a 
most  natural  and  even  necessary  development  of 
the  spirit  of  Christianity.  It  was  itself  founded 
on  Poverty,  on  Sorrow,  Contradiction,  Crucifixion, 
every  species  of  worldly  Distress  and  Degradation. 
We  may  say  that  he  who  has  not  known  those 
things,  and  learned  from  them  the  priceless  lessons 
they  have  to  teach,  has  missed  a good  opportunity 
of  schooling.  To  beg,  and  go  barefoot,  in  coarse 
woollen  cloak  with  a rope  round  your  loins,  and  be 
despised  of  all  the  world,  was  no  beautiful  busi- 
ness ; — nor  an  honourable  one  in  any  eye,  till  the 
nobleness  of  those  who  did  so  had  made  it  honoured 
of  some ! Begging  is  not  in  our  course  at  the  present 

205 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

time : but  for  the  rest  of  It,  who  will  say  that  a 
Johnson  is  not  perhaps  the  better  for  being  poor  ? 
It  is  needful  for  him,  at  all  rates,  to  know  that  out- 
ward profit,  that  success  of  any  kind  is  not  the  goal 
he  has  to  aim  at.  Pride,  vanity,  ill-conditioned 
egoism  of  all  sorts,  are  bred  in  his  heart,  as  in  every 
heart ; need,  above  all,  to  be  cast-out  of  his  heart, — 
to  be,  with  whatever  pangs,  torn-out  of  it,  cast-forth 
from  it,  as  a thing  worthless.  Byron,  born  rich  and 
noble,  made-out  even  less  than  Burns,  poor  and 
plebeian.  Who  knows  but,  in  that  same  ^best 
possible  organisation’  as  yet  far  oflF,  Poverty  may 
still  enter  as  an  important  element  ? What  if  our 
Men  of  Letters,  men  setting-up  to  be  Spiritual 
Heroes,  were  still  theny  as  they  now  are,  a kind  of 
‘ involuntary  monastic  order ; ’ bound  still  to  this 
same  ugly  Poverty, — till  they  had  tried  what  was 
in  it  too,  till  they  had  learned  to  make  it  to  do  for 
them ! Money,  in  truth,  can  do  much,  but  it  cannot 
do  all.  We  must  know  the  province  of  it,  and  con- 
fine it  there ; and  even  spurn  it  back,  when  it  wishes 
to  get  farther. 

Besides,  were  the  money-furtherances,  the  proper 
season  for  them,  the  fit  assigner  of  them,  all  settled, — 
how  is  the  Burns  to  be  recognised  that  merits  these  ? 
He  must  pass  through  the  ordeal,  and  prove  himself. 
This  ordeal ; this  wild  welter  of  a chaos  which  is 
called  Literary  Life : this  too  is  a kind  of  ordeal ! 
There  is  clear  truth  in  the  idea  that  a struggle  from 
the  lower  classes  of  society,  towards  the  upper 
regions  and  rewards  of  society,  must  ever  continue. 
Strong  men  are  born  there,  who  ought  to  stand  else- 
where than  there.  The  manifold,  inextricably  com- 
plex, universal  struggle  of  these  constitutes,  and 
must  constitute,  what  is  called  the  progress  of 
society.  For  Men  of  Letters,  as  for  all  other  sorts 
206 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

of  men.  How  to  regulate  that  struggle  ? There  is 
the  whole  question.  To  leave  it  as  it  is,  at  the 
mercy  of  blind  Chance ; a whirl  of  distracted  atoms, 
one  cancelling  the  other ; one  of  the  thousand  arriv- 
ing saved,  nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine  lost  by  the 
way ; your  royal  Johnson  languishing  inactive  in 
garrets,  or  harnessed  to  the  yoke  of  Printer  Cave ; 
your  Burns  dying  broken-hearted  as  a Gauger;  your 
Rousseau  driven  into  mad  exasperation,  kindling 
French  Revolutions  by  his  paradoxes:  this,  as  we 
said,  is  clearly  enough  the  worst  regulation.  The 
best,  alas,  is  far  from  us ! 

And  yet  there  can  be  no  doubt  but  It  is  coming; 
advancing  on  us,  as  yet  hidden  In  the  bosom  of  cen- 
turies : this  is  a prophecy  one  can  risk.  For  so  soon 
as  men  get  to  discern  the  importance  of  a thing,  they 
do  infallibly  set  about  arranging  it,  facilitating,  for- 
warding it ; and  rest  not  till,  in  some  approximate 
degree,  they  have  accomplished  that.  I say,  of  all 
Priesthoods,  Aristocracies,  Governing  Glasses  at 
present  extant  in  the  world,  there  is  no  class  com- 
parable for  importance  to  that  Priesthood  of  the 
Writers  of  Books.  This  is  a fact  which  he  who  runs 
may  read, — and  draw  inferences  from.  Literature 

will  take  care  of  itself,”  answered  Mr.  Pitt,  when 
applied-to  for  some  help  for  Burns.  ‘‘Yes,”  adds 
Mr.  Southey,  “ it  will  take  care  of  Itself ; and  of  you 
too,  if  you  do  not  look  to  it ! ” 

The  result  to  Individual  Men  of  Letters  Is  not 
the  momentous  one ; they  are  but  Individuals,  an 
infinitesimal  fraction  of  the  great  body ; they  can 
struggle  on,  and  live  or  else  die,  as  they  have  been 
wont.  But  It  deeply  concerns  the  whole  society, 
whether  it  will  set  its  light  on  high  places,  to  walk 
thereby ; or  trample  it  under  foot,  and  scatter  it  In 
all  ways  of  wild  waste  (not  without  conflagration), 

207 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

as  heretofore ! Light  is  the  one  thing  wanted  for 
the  world.  Put  wisdom  in  the  head  of  the  world, 
the  world  will  fight  its  battle  victoriously,  and  be 
the  best  world  man  can  make  it.  I called  this  ano- 
maly of  a disorganic  Literary  Class  the  heart  of  all 
other  anomalies,  at  once  product  and  parent ; some 
good  arrangement  for  that  would  be  as  the  punctum 
saliens  of  a new  vitality  and  just  arrangement  for  all. 
Already,  in  some  European  countries,  in  France,  in 
Prussia,  one  traces  some  beginnings  of  an  arrange- 
ment for  the  Literary  Class ; indicating  the  gradual 
possibility  of  such.  I believe  that  it  is  possible ; that 
it  will  have  to  be  possible. 

By  far  the  most  interesting  fact  I hear  about  the 
Chinese  is  one  on  which  we  cannot  arrive  at  clear- 
ness, but  which  excites  endless  curiosity  even  in  the 
dim  state : this  namely,  that  they  do  attempt  to 
make  their  Men  of  Letters  their  Governors!  It 
would  be  rash  to  say,  one  understood  how  this  was 
done,  or  with  what  degree  of  success  it  was  done. 
All  such  things  must  be  very  unsuccessful ; yet  a 
small  degree  of  success  is  precious ; the  very  attempt 
how  precious!  There  does  seem  to  be,  all  over 
China,  a more  or  less  active  search  everywhere  to 
discover  the  men  of  talent  that  grow  up  in  the  young 
generation.  Schools  there  are  for  every  one : a 
foolish  sort  of  training,  yet  still  a sort.  The  youths 
who  distinguish  themselves  in  the  lower  school  are 
promoted  into  favourable  stations  in  the  higher, 
that  they  may  still  more  distinguish  themselves, — 
forward  and  forward : it  appears  to  be  out  of  these 
that  the  Ofiicial  Persons,  and  incipient  Governors, 
are  taken.  These  are  they  whom  they  try  first, 
whether  they  can  govern  or  not.  And  surely  with 
the  best  hope : for  they  are  the  men  that  have 
already  shown  intellect.  Try  them : they  have  not 
208 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

governed  or  administered  as  yet;  perhaps  they 
cannot ; but  there  is  no  doubt  they  have  some  un- 
derstanding,— without  which  no  man  can  ! Neither 
is  Understanding  a tool,  as  we  are  too  apt  to  figure  ; 
‘ it  is  a hand  which  can  handle  any  tool/  Try  these 
men  : they  are  of  all  others  the  best  worth  trying. — 
Surely  there  is  no  kind  of  government,  constitu- 
tion, revolution,  social  apparatus  or  arrangement, 
that  I know  of  in  this  world,  so  promising  to  one’s 
scientific  curiosity  as  this.  The  man  of  intellect  at 
the  top  of  affairs : this  is  the  aim  of  all  constitutions 
and  revolutions,  if  they  have  any  aim.  F or  the  man 
of  true  intellect,  as  I assert  and  believe  always,  is 
the  noblehearted  man  withal,  the  true,  just,  humane 
and  valiant  man.  Get  him  for  governor,  all  is  got ; 
fail  to  get  him,  though  you  had  Constitutions  plen- 
tiful as  blackberries,  and  a Parliament  in  every 
village,  there  is  nothing  yet  got ! — 

These  things  look  strange,  truly ; and  are  not 
such  as  we  commonly  speculate  upon.  But  we  are 
fallen  into  strange  times  ; these  things  will  require 
to  be  speculated  upon ; to  be  rendered  practicable, 
to  be  in  some  way  put  in  practice.  These,  and  many 
others.  On  all  hands  of  us,  there  is  the  announce- 
ment, audible  enough,  that  the  old  Empire  of 
Routine  has  ended ; that  to  say  a thing  has  long 
been,  is  no  reason  for  its  continuing  to  be.  The 
things  which  have  been  are  fallen  into  decay,  are 
fallen  into  incompetence ; large  masses  of  mankind, 
in  every  society  of  our  Europe,  are  no  longer 
capable  of  living  at  all  by  the  things  which  have 
been.  When  millions  of  men  can  no  longer  by 
their  utmost  exertion  gain  food  for  themselves,  and 
‘ the  third  man  for  thirty-six  weeks  each  year  is 
short  of  third-rate  potatoes,’  the  things  which  have 
been  must  decidedly  prepare  to  alter  themselves  ! — 
o 209 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

I will  now  quit  this  of  the  organisation  of  Men 
of  Letters. 

Alas,  the  evil  that  pressed  heaviest  on  those 
Literary  Heroes  of  ours  was  not  the  want  of  or- 
ganisation for  Men  of  Letters,  but  a far  deeper 
one ; out  of  which,  indeed,  this  and  so  many  other 
evils  for  the  Literary  Man,  and  for  all  men,  had, 
as  from  their  fountain,  taken  rise.  That  our  Hero  as 
Man  of  Letters  had  to  travel  without  highway, 
companionless,  through  an  inorganic  chaos, — and 
to  leave  his  own  life  and  faculty  lying  there,  as  a 
partial  contribution  towards  pushing  some  highway 
through  it : this,  had  not  his  faculty  itself  been  so 
perverted  and  paralysed,  he  might  have  put-up 
with,  might  have  considered  to  be  but  the  common 
lot  of  Heroes.  His  fatal  misery  was  the  spiritual 
paralysis,  so  we  may  name  it,  of  the  Age  in  which 
his  life  lay ; whereby  his  life  too,  do  what  he  might, 
was  half-paralysed  ! The  Eighteenth  was  a Sceptical 
Century ; in  which  little  word  there  is  a whole 
Pandora's  Box  of  miseries.  Scepticism  means  not 
intellectual  Doubt  alone,  but  moral  Doubt;  all 
sorts  of  infidelity,  insincerity,  spiritual  paralysis. 
Perhaps,  in  few  centuries  that  one  could  specify 
since  the  world  began,  was  a life  of  Heroism  more 
difficult  for  a man.  That  was  not  an  age  of  F aith, — 
an  age  of  Heroes ! The  very  possibility  of  Heroism 
had  been,  as  it  were,  formally  abnegated  in  the 
minds  of  all.  Heroism  was  gone  forever ; Triviality, 
Formulism  and  Commonplace  were  come  forever. 
The  ‘ age  of  miracles ' had  been,  or  perhaps  had  not 
been ; but  it  was  not  any  longer.  An  effete  world ; 
wherein  Wonder,  Greatness,  Godhood  could  not 
now  dwell ; — in  one  word,  a godless  world  ! 

How  mean,  dwarfish  are  their  ways  of  thinking, 

^10 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

in  this  time, — compared  not  with  the  Christian 
Shakspeares  and  Miltons,  but  with  the  old  Pagan 
Skalds,  with  any  species  of  believing  men ! The 
living  Tree  Igdrasil,  with  the  melodious  prophetic 
waving  of  its  world-wide  boughs,  deep-rooted  as 
Hela,  has  died-out  into  the  clanking  of  a World- 
Machine.  ‘Tree’  and  ‘Machine’:  contrast  these 
two  things.  I,  for  my  share,  declare  the  world  to 
be  no  machine  ! I say  that  it  does  not  go  by 
wheel-and-pinion  ‘ motives,’  self-interests,  checks, 
balances;  that  there  is  something  far  other  in  it 
than  the  clank  of  spinning-jennies,  and  parliamen- 
tary majorities ; and,  on  the  whole,  that  it  is  not  a 
machine  at  all ! — The  old  Norse  Heathen  had  a 
truer  notion  of  God’s-world  than  these  poor  Ma- 
chine-Sceptics : the  old  Heathen  Norse  were  sincere 
men.  But  for  these  poor  Sceptics  there  was  no  sin- 
cerity, no  truth.  Half-truth  and  hearsay  was  called 
truth.  Truth,  for  most  men,  meant  plausibility;  to 
be  measured  by  the  number  of  votes  you  could  get. 
They  had  lost  any  notion  that  sincerity  was  possible, 
or  of  what  sincerity  was.  How  many  Plausibili- 
ties asking,  with  unaffected  surprise  and  the  air  of 
offended  virtue.  What ! am  not  I sincere  ? Spiritual 
Paralysis,  I say,  nothing  left  but  a Mechanical  life, 
was  the  characteristic  of  that  century.  For  the 
common  man,  unless  happily  he  stood  below  his 
century  and  belonged  to  another  prior  one,  it  was 
impossible  to  be  a Believer,  a Hero  ; he  lay  buried, 
unconscious,  under  these  baleful  influences.  To  the 
strongest  man,  only  with  infinite  struggle  and  con- 
fusfon  was  it  possible  to  work  himself  half-loose ; 
and  lead  as  it  were,  in  an  enchanted,  most  tragical 
way,  a spiritual  death-in-life,  and  be  a Half- Hero ! 

Scepticism  is  the  name  we  give  to  all  this;  as 
the  chief  symptom,  as  the  chief  origin  of  all  this. 

211 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Concerning  which  so  much  were  to  be  said ! It 
would  take  many  Discourses,  not  a small  fraction 
of  one  Discourse,  to  state  what  one  feels  about  that 
Eighteenth  Century  and  its  ways.  As  indeed  this, 
and  the  like  of  this,  which  we  now  call  Scepticism, 
is  precisely  the  black  malady  and  life-foe,  against 
which  all  teaching  and  discoursing  since  man’s  life 
began  has  directed  itself:  the  battle  of  Belief  against 
Unbelief  is  the  never-ending  battle  ! Neither  is  it 
in  the  way  of  crimination  that  one  would  wish  to 
speak.  Scepticism,  for  that  century,  we  must  con- 
sider as  the  decay  of  old  ways  of  believing,  the  pre- 
paration afar  off  for  new  better  and  wider  ways, — 
an  inevitable  thing.  We  will  not  blame  men  for  it; 
we  will  lament  their  hard  fate.  We  will  understand 
that  destruction  of  old  forms  is  not  destruction  of 
everlasting  substances;  that  Scepticism,  as  sorrow- 
ful and  hateful  as  we  see  it,  is  not  an  end  but  a 
beginning. 

The  other  day  speaking,  without  prior  purpose 
that  way,  of  Bentham’s  theory  of  man  and  man’s 
life,  I chanced  to  call  it  a more  beggarly  one  than 
Mahomet’s.  I am  bound  to  say,  now  when  it  is  once 
uttered,  that  such  is  my  deliberate  opinion.  N ot  that 
one  would  mean  offence  against  the  man  Jeremy 
Bentham,  or  those  who  respect  and  believe  him. 
Bentham  himself,  and  even  the  creed  of  Bentham, 
seems  to  me  comparatively  worthy  of  praise.  It  is  a 
determinate  being  what  all  the  world,  in  a cowardly 
half-and-half  manner,  was  tending  to  be.  Let  us 
have  the  crisis ; we  shall  either  have  death  or  the 
cure.  I call  this  gross,  steamengine  Utilitarianism 
an  approach  towards  new  Faith.  It  was  a laying- 
down  of  cant ; a saying  to  oneself : ‘‘  Well  then,  this 
world  is  a dead  iron  machine,  the  god  of  it  Gravita- 
tion and  selfish  Hunger;  let  us  see  what,  by  checking 
212 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

and  balancing,  and  good  adjustment  of  tooth  and 
pinion,  can  be  made  of  it ! Benthamism  has  some- 
thing complete,  manful,  in  such  fearless  committal 
of  itself  to  what  it  finds  true;  you  may  call  it  Heroic, 
though  a Heroism  with  its  eyes  put  out ! It  is  the 
culminating  point,  and  fearless  ultimatum,  of  what 
lay  in  the  half-and-half  state,  pervading  man’s  whole 
existence  in  that  Eighteenth  Century.  It  seems  to 
me,  all  deniers  of  Godhood,  and  all  lip-believers  of 
it,  are  bound  to  be  Benthamites,  if  they  have  courage 
and  honesty.  Benthamism  is  an  eyeless  Heroism : 
the  Human  Species,  like  a hapless  blinded  Samson 
grinding  in  the  Philistine  Mill,  clasps  convulsively 
the  pillars  of  its  Mill ; brings  huge  ruin  down,  but 
ultimately  deliverance  withal.  Of  Bentham  I meant 
to  say  no  harm. 

But  this  I do  say,  and  would  wish  all  men  to 
know  and  lay  to  heart,  that  he  who  discerns  nothing 
but  Mechanism  in  the  Universe  has  in  the  fatallest 
way  missed  the  secret  of  the  Universe  altogether. 
That  all  Godhood  should  vanish  out  of  men’s  con- 
ception of  this  Universe  seems  to  me  precisely  the 
most  brutal  error, — I will  not  disparage  Heathenism 
by  calling  it  a Heathen  error, — that  men  could  fall 
into.  It  is  not  true ; it  is  false  at  the  very  heart  of 
it.  A man  who  thinks  so  will  think  wrong  about  all 
things  in  the  world ; this  original  sin  will  vitiate  all 
other  conclusions  he  can  form.  One  might  call  it 
the  most  lamentable  of  Delusions, — not  forgetting 
Witchcraft  itself  1 Witchcraft  worshiped  at  least  a 
living  Devil ; but  this  worships  a dead  iron  Devil ; 
no  God,  not  even  a Devil ! — Whatsoever  is  noble, 
divine,  inspired,  drops  thereby  out  of  life.  There 
remains  everywhere  in  life  a despicable  caput-mor~ 
tuum ; the  mechanical  hull,  all  soul  fled  out  of  it. 
How  can  a man  act  heroically  ? The  ‘ Doctrine  of 

213 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Motives  ’ will  teach  him  that  it  is,  under  more  or 
less  disguise,  nothing  but  a wretched  love  of  Plea- 
sure, fear  of  Pain ; that  Hunger,  of  applause,  of  cash, 
of  whatsoever  victual  it  may  be,  is  the  ultimate  fact 
of  man’s  life.  Atheism,  in  brief; — which  does  in- 
deed frightfully  punish  itself.  The  man,  I say,  is 
become  spiritually  a paralytic  man ; this  godlike 
Universe  a dead  mechanical  steamengine,  all  work- 
ing by  motives,  checks,  balances,  and  I know  not 
what ; wherein,  as  in  the  detestable  belly  of  some 
Phalaris’-Bull  of  his  own  contriving,  he  the  poor 
Phalaris  sits  miserably  dying ! 

Belief  I define  to  be  the  healthy  act  of  a man’s 
mind.  It  is  a mysterious  indescribable  process,  that 
of  getting  to  believe ; — indescribable,  as  all  vital 
acts  are.  We  have  our  mind  given  us,  not  that  it 
may  cavil  and  argue,  but  that  it  may  see  into  some- 
thing, give  us  clear  belief  and  understanding  about 
something,  whereon  we  are  then  to  proceed  to 
act.  Doubt,  truly,  is  not  itself  a crime.  Certainly 
we  do  not  rush  out,  clutch-up  the  first  thing  we 
find,  and  straightway  believe  that ! All  manner  of 
doubt,  inquiry,  o-Ke^is  as  it  is  named,  about  all 
manner  of  objects,  dwells  in  every  reasonable 
mind.  It  is  the  mystic  working  of  the  mind,  on 
the  object  it  is  getting  to  know  and  believe.  Belief 
comes  out  of  all  this,  above  ground,  like  the  tree 
from  its  hidden  roots.  But  now  if,  even  on  common 
things,  we  require  that  a man  keep  his  doubts 
silent,  and  not  babble  of  them  till  they  in  some 
measure  become  afiirmations  or  denials ; how  much 
more  in  regard  to  the  highest  things,  impossible  to 
speak-of  in  words  at  all ! That  a man  parade  his 
doubt,  and  get  to  imagine  that  debating  and  logic 
(which  means  at  best  only  the  manner  of  telling  us 
your  thought,  your  belief  or  disbelief,  about  a 
21+ 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

thing)  is  the  triumph  and  true  work  of  what  inteh 
lect  he  has : alas,  this  is  as  if  you  should  overturn 
the  tree,  and  instead  of  green  boughs,  leaves  and 
fruits,  show  us  ugly  taloned  roots  turned-up  into 
the  air, — and  no  growth,  only  death  and  misery 
going-on ! 

For  the  Scepticism,  as  I said,  is  not  intellectual 
only ; it  is  moral  also ; a chronic  atrophy  and  dis- 
ease of  the  whole  soul.  A man  lives  by  believing 
something;  not  by  debating  and  arguing  about 
many  things.  A sad  case  for  him  when  all  that  he 
can  manage  to  believe  is  something  he  can  button 
in  his  pocket,  and  with  one  or  the  other  organ  eat 
and  digest ! Lower  than  that  he  will  not  get.  We 
call  those  ages  in  which  he  gets  so  low  the  mourn- 
fullest,  sickest  and  meanest  of  all  ages.  The  world’s 
heart  is  palsied,  sick : how  can  any  limb  of  it  be 
whole  ? Genuine  Acting  ceases  in  all  departments 
of  the  world’s  work ; dextrous  Similitude  of  Acting 
begins.  The  world’s  wages  are  pocketed,  the  world’s 
work  is  not  done.  Heroes  have  gone-out ; Quacks 
have  come-in.  Accordingly,  what  Century,  since 
the  end  of  the  Roman  world,  which  also  was  a 
time  of  scepticism,  simulacra  and  universal  deca- 
dence, so  abounds  with  Quacks  as  that  Eighteenth? 
Consider  them,  with  their  tumid  sentimental  va- 
pouring about  virtue,  benevolence, — the  wretched 
Quack-squadron,  Cagliostro  at  the  head  of  them ! 
Few  men  were  without  quackery;  they  had  got 
to  consider  it  a necessary  ingredient  and  amalgam 
for  truth.  Chatham,  our  brave  Chatham  himself, 
conges  down  to  the  House,  all  wrapt  and  bandaged ; 
he  ‘ has  crawled-out  in  great  bodily  suffering,’  and 
so  on; — forgets,  says  Walpole,  that  he  is  acting 
the  sick  man ; in  the  fire  of  debate,  snatches  his 
arm  from  the  sling,  and  oratorically  swings  and 

215 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

brandishes  it ! Chatham  himself  lives  the  strangest 
mimetic  life,  half-hero,  half-quack,  all  along.  For 
indeed  the  world  is  full  of  dupes ; and  you  have  to 
gain  the  world's  suffrage ! How  the  duties  of  the 
world  will  be  done  in  that  case,  what  quantities  of 
error,  which  means  failure,  which  means  sorrow 
and  misery,  to  some  and  to  many,  will  gradually 
accumulate  in  all  provinces  of  the  world’s  business, 
we  need  not  compute. 

It  seems  to  me,  you  lay  your  finger  here  on  the 
heart  of  the  world’s  maladies,  when  you  call  it  a 
Sceptical  World.  An  insincere  world ; a godless 
untruth  of  a world  ! It  is  out  of  this,  as  I consider, 
that  the  whole  tribe  of  social  pestilences,  French 
Revolutions,  Chartisms,  and  what  not,  have  derived 
their  being, — their  chief  necessity  to  be.  This  must 
alter.  Till  this  alter,  nothing  can  beneficially  alter. 
My  one  hope  of  the  world,  my  inexpugnable  con- 
solation in  looking  at  the  miseries  of  the  world,  is 
that  this  is  altering.  Here  and  there  one  does  now 
find  a man  who  knows,  as  of  old,  that  this  world  is 
a Truth,  and  no  Plausibility  and  Falsity;  that  he 
himself  is  alive,  not  dead  or  paralytic ; and  the 
world  is  alive,  instinct  with  Godhood,  beautiful  and 
awful,  even  as  in  the  beginning  of  days  ! One  man 
once  knowing  this,  many  men,  all  men,  must  by  and 
by  come  to  know  it.  It  lies  there  clear,  for  whoso- 
ever will  take  the  spectacles  off  his  eyes  and  honestly 
look,  to  know!  For  such  a man  the  Unbelieving 
Century,  with  its  unblessed  Products,  is  already 
past;  a new  century  is  already  come.  The  old  un- 
blessed Products  and  Performances,  as  solid  as  they 
look,  are  Phantasms,  preparing  speedily  to  vanish. 
To  this  and  the  other  noisy,  very  great-looking 
Simulacrum  with  the  whole  world  huzzahing  at  its 
heels,  he  can  say,  composedly  stepping  aside : Thou 
216 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

art  not  true;  thou  art  not  extant,  only  semblant ; 
go  thy  way  ! — Yes,  hollow  Formulism,  gross  Ben- 
thamism, and  other  unheroic  atheistic  Insincerity 
is  visibly  and  even  rapidly  declining.  An  unbeliev- 
ing Eighteenth  Century  is  but  an  exception, — such 
as  now  and  then  occurs.  I prophesy  that  the  world 
will  once  more  become  sincere;  a believing  world; 
with  many  Heroes  in  it,  a heroic  world  ! It  will  then 
be  a victorious  world ; never  till  then. 

Or  indeed  what  of  the  world  and  its  victories  ? 
Men  speak  too  much  about  the  world.  Each  one 
of  us  here,  let  the  world  go  how  it  will,  and  be 
victorious  or  not  victorious,  has  he  not  a Life  of  his 
own  to  lead  ? One  Life ; a little  gleam  of  Time 
between  tw'o  Eternities ; no  second  chance  to  us 
forevermore ! It  were  well  for  us  to  live  not  as  fools 
and  simulacra,  but  as  wise  and  realities.  The  world^s 
being  saved  will  not  save  us ; nor  the  world’s  being 
lost  destroy  us.  We  should  look  to  ourselves : there 
is  great  merit  here  in  the  ‘ duty  of  staying  at  home  !* 
And,  on  the  whole,  to  say  truth,  I never  heard  of 
‘worlds’  being  ‘saved’  in  any  other  way.  That 
mania  of  saving  worlds  is  itself  a piece  of  the 
Eighteenth  Century  with  its  windy  sentimentalism. 
Let  us  not  follow  it  too  far.  For  the  saving  of  the 
world  I will  trust  confidently  to  the  Maker  of  the 
world ; and  look  a little  to  my  own  saving,  which 
I am  more  competent  to  ! — In  brief,  for  the  world’s 
sake,  and  for  our  own,  we  will  rejoice  greatly  that 
Scepjjcism,  Insincerity,  Mechanical  Atheism,  with 
all  tneir  poison-dews,  are  going,  and  as  good  as 
gone. — 

Now  it  was  under  such  conditions,  in  those  times 
of  Johnson,  that  our  Men  of  Letters  had  to  live. 
Times  in  which  there  was  properly  no  truth  in  life. 
Old  truths  had  fallen  nigh  dumb ; the  new  lay  yet 

217 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

hidden,  not  trying  to  speak.  That  Man’s  Life  here 
below  was  a Sincerity  and  Fact,  and  would  forever 
continue  such,  no  new  intimation,  in  that  dusk  of  the 
world,  had  yet  dawned.  No  intimation ; not  even  any 
F rench  Revolution, — which  we  define  to  be  a Truth 
once  more,  though  a Truth  clad  in  hellfire ! How 
different  was  the  Luther’s  pilgrimage,  with  its 
assured  goal,  from  the  Johnson’s,  girt  with  mere 
traditions,  suppositions,  grown  now  incredible,  un- 
intelligible ! Mahomet’s  Formulas  were  of ‘wood 
waxed  and  oiled,’  and  could  be  burnt  out  of  one’s 
way;  poor  Johnson’s  were  far  more  difficult  to 
burn. — The  strong  man  will  ever  find  work,  which 
means  difficulty,  pain,  to  the  full  measure  of  his 
strength.  But  to  make-out  a victory,  in  those  cir- 
cumstances of  our  poor  Hero  as  Man  of  Letters, 
was  perhaps  more  difiicult  than  in  any.  Not  ob- 
struction, disorganisation,  Bookseller  Osborne  and 
Fourpence-halfpenny  a day;  not  this  alone;  but 
the  light  of  his  own  soul  was  taken  from  him.  No 
landmark  on  the  Earth  ; and,  alas,  what  is  that  to 
having  no  loadstar  in  the  Heaven ! We  need  not 
wonder  that  none  of  those  Three  men  rose  to  vic- 
tory. That  they  fought  truly  is  the  highest  praise. 
With  a mournful  sympathy  we  will  contemplate,  if 
not  three  living  victorious  Heroes,  as  I said,  the 
Tombs  of  three  fallen  Heroes ! They  fell  for  us 
too ; making  a way  for  us.  There  are  the  moun- 
tains which  they  hurled  abroad  in  their  confused 
War  of  the  Giants  ; under  which,  their  strength  and 
life  spent,  they  now  lie  buried. 

I have  already  written  of  these  three  Literary 
Heroes,  expressly  or  incidentally  ; what  I suppose 
is  known  to  most  of  you  ; what  need  not  be  spoken 
or  written  a second  time.  They  concern  us  here  as 
218 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

the  singular  Prophets  of  that  singular  age  ; for  such 
they  virtually  were  ; and  the  aspect  they  and  their 
world  exhibit,  under  this  point  of  view,  might  lead 
us  into  reflections  enough ! I call  them,  all  three. 
Genuine  Men  more  or  less ; faithfully,  for  most 
part  unconsciously,  struggling,  to  be  genuine,  and 
plant  themselves  on  the  everlasting  truth  of  things. 
This  to  a degree  that  eminently  distinguishes  them 
from  the  poor  artificial  mass  of  their  contempo- 
raries ; and  renders  them  worthy  to  be  considered 
as  Speakers,  in  some  measure,  of  the  everlasting 
truth,  as  Prophets  in  that  age  of  theirs.  By  Nature 
herself  a noble  necessity  was  laid  on  them  to  be  so. 
They  were  men  of  such  magnitude  that  they  could 
not  live  on  unrealities, — clouds,  froth  and  all  inanity 
gave- wpy  under  them : there  was  no  footing  for  them 
but  on  firm  earth;  no  rest  or  regular  motion  for  them, 
if  they  got  not  footing  there.  To  a certain  extent, 
they  were  Sons  of  Nature  once  more  In  an  age  of 
Artifice  ; once  more.  Original  Men. 

As  for  Johnson,  I have  always  considered  him  to 
be,  by  nature,  one  of  our  great  English  souls.  A 
strong  and  noble  man  ; so  much  left  undeveloped 
In  him  to  the  last : in  a kindlier  element  what  might 
he  not  have  been, — Poet,  Priest,  sovereign  Ruler ! 
On  the  whole,  a man  must  not  complain  of  his 
‘ element,’  of  his  ‘ time,’  or  the  like ; it  is  thriftless 
work  doing  so.  His  time  is  bad : well  then,  he  is 
there  to  make  It  better! — Johnson’s  youth  was 
poor,  isolated,  hopeless,  very  miserable.  Indeed,  it 
does  not  seem  possible  that,  in  any  the  favourablest 
outward  circumstances,  Johnson’s  life  could  have 
been  other  than  a painful  one.  The  world  might 
have  had  more  of  profitable  work  out  of  him,  or 
less ; but  his  ejfort  against  the  world’s  work  could 
never  have  been  a light  one.  Nature,  in  return  for 

219 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

his  nobleness,  had  said  to  him,  Live  in  an  element 
of  diseased  sorrow.  Nay,  perhaps  the  sorrow  and 
the  nobleness  were  intimately  and  even  inseparably 
connected  with  each  other.  At  all  events,  poor 
Johnson  had  to  go  about  girt  with  continual  hypo- 
chondria, physical  and  spiritual  pain.  Like  a Her- 
cules with  the  burning  Nessus’-shirt  on  him,  which 
shoots-in  on  him  dull  incurable  misery : the  Nessus’- 
shirt  not  to  be  stript-off,  which  is  his  own  natural 
skin ! In  this  manner,  he  had  to  live.  Figure  him 
there,  with  his  scrofulous  diseases,  with  his  great 
greedy  heart,  and  unspeakable  chaos  of  thoughts ; 
stalking  mournful  as  a stranger  in  this  Earth ; eagerly 
devouring  what  spiritual  thing  he  could  come  at : 
school  - languages  and  other  merely  grammatical 
stuff,  if  there  were  nothing  better ! The  largest  soul 
that  was  in  all  England ; and  provision  made  for  it 
of  ‘ fourpence-halfpenny  a day.’  Yet  a giant  invin- 
cible soul ; a true  man’s.  One  remembers  always 
that  story  of  the  shoes  at  Oxford  : the  rough,  seamy- 
faced,  rawboned  College  Servitor  stalking  about, 
in  winter-season,  with  his  shoes  worn-out ; how  the 
charitable  Gentleman  Commoner  secretly  places  a 
new  pair  at  his  door ; and  the  rawboned  Servitor, 
lifting  them,  looking  at  them  near,  with  his  dim 
eyes,  with  what  thoughts, — pitches  them  out  of 
window  ! Wet  feet,  mud,  frost,  hunger  or  what  you 
will ; but  not  beggary : we  Cannot  stand  beggary ! 
Rude  stubborn  self-help  here ; a whole  world  of 
squalor,  rudeness,  confused  misery  and  want,  yet 
of  nobleness  and  manfulness  withal.  It  is  a type 
of  the  man’s  life,  this  pitching-away  of  the  shoes. 
An  original  man ; — not  a secondhand,  borrowing  or 
begging  man.  Let  us  stand  on  our  own  basis,  at 
any  rate  ! On  such  shoes  as  we  ourselves  can  get. 
On  frost  and  mud,  if  you  will,  but  honestly  on 
220 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

that ; — on  the  reality  and  substance  which  Nature 
gives  us,  not  on  the  semblance,  on  the  thing  she  has 
given  another  than  us  ! — 

And  yet  with  all  this  rugged  pride  of  manhood 
and  self-help,  was  there  ever  soul  more  tenderly 
affectionate,  loyally  submissive  to  what  was  really 
higher  than  he?  Great  souls  are  always  loyally 
submissive,  reverent  to  what  is  over  them  ; only 
small  mean  souls  are  otherwise.  I could  not  find  a 
better  proof  of  what  I said  the  other  day,  That  the 
sincere  man  was  by  nature  the  obedient  man ; that 
only  in  a World  of  Heroes  was  there  loyal  Obedi- 
ence to  the  Heroic.  The  essence  of  originality  is  not 
that  it  be  new:  Johnson  believed  altogether  in  the 
old  ; he  found  the  old  opinions  credible  for  him,  fit 
for  him ; and  in  a right  heroic  manner  lived  under 
them.  He  is  well  worth  study  In  regard  to  that. 
For  we  are  to  say  that  Johnson  was  far  other  than 
a mere  man  of  words  and  formulas ; he  was  a man 
of  truths  and  facts.  He  stood  by  the  old  formulas  ; 
the  happier  was  it  for  him  that  he  could  so  stand  : 
but  in  all  formulas  that  he  could  stand  by,  there 
needed  to  be  a most  genuine  substance.  Very  curious 
how,  in  that  poor  Paper- age,  so  barren,  artificial, 
thick-quilted  with  Pedantries,  Hearsays,  the  great 
Fact  of  this  Universe  glared-In  forever,  wonderful, 
indubitable,  unspeakable,  divine-infernal,  upon  this 
man  too  ! How  he  harmonised  his  Formulas  with 
it,  how  he  managed  at  all  under  such  circumstances: 
that  is  a thing  worth  seeing.  A thing  ‘to  be  looked  at 
with  reverence,  with  pity,  with  awe.’  That  Church 
of  St.  Clement  Danes,  where  Johnson  still  worshiped 
in  the  era  of  Voltaire,  is  to  me  a venerable  place. 

It  was  in  virtue  of  his  sincerity,  of  his  speaking 
still  In  some  sort  from  the  heart  of  Nature,  though 
in  the  current  artificial  dialect,  that  Johnson  was  a 

221 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Prophet.  Are  not  all  dialects  * artificial  ?’  Artificial 
things  are  not  all  false ; — nay  every  true  Product 
of  Nature  will  infallibly  shape  itself ; we  may  say 
all  artificial  things  are,  at  the  starting  of  them,  true. 
What  we  call  ‘ F ormulas  ’ are  not  in  their  origin 
bad ; they  are  indispensably  good.  F ormula  is  method^ 
habitude  ; found  wherever  man  is  found.  F ormulas 
fashion  themselves  as  Paths  do,  as  beaten  Highways, 
leading  towards  some  sacred  or  high  object,  whither 
many  men  are  bent.  Consider  it.  One  man,  full  of 
heartfelt  earnest  impulse,  finds-out  a way  of  doing 
somewhat, — were  it  of  uttering  his  soul’s  reverence 
for  the  Highest,  were  it  but  of  fitly  saluting  his 
fellow-man.  An  inventor  was  needed  to  do  that,  a 
poet;  he  has  articulated  the  dim-struggling  thought 
that  dwelt  in  his  own  and  many  hearts.  This  is  his 
way  of  doing  that ; these  are  his  footsteps,  the 
beginning  of  a ‘Path.’  And  now  see:  the  second 
man  travels  naturally  in  the  footsteps  of  his  fore- 
goer, it  is  the  easiest  method.  In  the  footsteps  of 
his  foregoer ; yet  with  improvements,  with  changes 
where  such  seem  good  ; at  all  events  with  enlarge- 
ments, the  Path  ever  widening  itself  as  more  travel 
it ; — till  at  last  there  is  a broad  Highway  whereon 
the  whole  world  may  travel  and  drive.  While  there 
remains  a City  or  Shrine,  or  any  Reality  to  drive  to, 
at  the  farther  end,  the  Highway  shall  be  right 
welcome  ! When  the  City  is  gone,  we  will  forsake 
the  Highway.  In  this  manner  all  Institutions,  Prac- 
tices, Regulated  Things  in  the  world  have  come 
into  existence,  and  gone  out  of  existence.  F ormulas 
all  begin  by  being  full  of  substance  ; you  may  call 
them  the  skin,  the  articulation  into  shape,  into  limbs 
and  skin,  of  a substance  that  is  already  there  : they 
had  not  been  there  otherwise.  Idols,  as  we  said, 
are  not  idolatrous  till  they  become  doubtful,  empty 
222 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

for  the  worshiper’s  heart.  Much  as  we  talk  against 
Formulas,  I hope  no  one  of  us  is  ignorant  withal  of 
the  high  significance  of  true  Formulas;  that  they 
were,  and  will  ever  be,  the  indispensablest  furniture 

of  our  habitation  in  this  world. 

Mark,  too,  how  little  Johnson  boasts  of  his  ‘sin- 
cerity.’ He  has  no  suspicion  of  his  being  particularly 
sincere, — of  his  being  particularly  anything!  A 
hard-struggling,  weary-hearted  man,  or  ‘scholar’ 
as  he  calls  himself,  trying  hard  to  get  some  honest 
livelihood  in  the  world,  not  to  starve,  but  to  live — 
without  stealing  1 A noble  unconsciousness  is  in 
him.  He  does  not  ‘engrave  Truth  on  his  watch-seal’; 
no,  but  he  stands  by  truth,  speaks  by  it,  works  and 
lives  by  it.  Thus  it  ever  is.  Think  of  it  once  more. 
The  man  whom  Nature  has  appointed  to  do  great 
things  is,  first  of  all,  furnished  with  that  openness 
to  Nature  which  renders  him  incapable  of  being 
insincere!  To  his  large,  open,  deep-feeling  heart 
Nature  is  a Fact:  all  hearsay  is  hearsay;  the  un- 
speakable greatness  of  this  Mystery  of  Life,  let  him 
acknowledge  it  or  not,  nay  even  though  he  seem  to 
forget  it  or  deny  it,  is  ever  present  to  him, — fearful 
and  wonderful,  on  this  hand  and  on  that.  He  has  a 
basis  of  sincerity ; unrecognised,  because  never  ques- 
tioned or  capable  of  question.  Mirabeau,  Mahomet, 
Cromwell,  Napoleon : all  the  Great  Men  I ever 
heard- of  have  this  as  the  primary  material  of  them. 
Innumerable  commonplace  men  are  debating,  are 
talking  everywhere  their  commonplace  doctrines, 
which  they  have  learned  by  logic,  by  rote,  at 
secondhand : to  that  kind  of  man  all  this  is  still 
nothing.  He  must  have  truth  ; truth  which  he  feels 
to  be  true.  How  shall  he  stand  otherwise?  His 
whole  soul,  at  all  moments,  in  all  ways,  tells  him 
that  there  is  no  standing.  He  is  under  the  noble 

223 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

necessity  of  being  true.  Johnson’s  way  of  thinking 
about  this  world  is  not  mine,  any  more  than  Maho- 
met’s was : but  I recognise  the  everlasting  element 
of  hewct-sincerity  in  both ; and  see  with  pleasure 
how  neither  of  them  remains  ineffectual.  Neither 
of  them  is  as  chaff  sown  ; in  both  of  them  is  some- 
thing which  the  seed-field  will  grow. 

Johnson  was  a Prophet  to  his  people ; preached 
a Gospel  to  them, — as  all  like  him  always  do.  The 
highest  Gospel  he  preached  we  may  describe  as  a 
kind  of  Moral  Prudence : ^in  a world  where  much 
is  to  be  done  and  little  is  to  be  known,’  see  how  you 
will  do  it  \ A thing  well  worth  preaching.  ‘ A world 
where  much  is  to  be  done  and  little  is  to  be  known : ’ 
do  not  sink  yourselves  in  boundless  bottomless 
abysses  of  Doubt,  of  wretched  godforgetting  Un- 
belief you  were  miserable  then,  powerless,  mad : 
how  could  you  do  or  work  at  all?  Such  Gospel 
Johnson  preached  and  taught ; — coupled,  theoreti- 
cally and  practically,  with  this  other  great  Gospel, 
‘ Clear  your  mind  of  Gant ! ’ Have  no  trade  with 
Cant : stand  on  the  cold  mud  in  the  frosty  weather, 
but  let  it  be  in  your  own  real  torn  shoes : ‘ that  will 
be  better  for  you,’  as  Mahomet  says ! I call  this,  I 
call  these  two  things  joined  together^  a great  Gos- 
pel, the  greatest  perhaps  that  was  possible  at  that 
time. 

Johnson’s  Writings,  which  once  had  such  cur- 
rency and  celebrity,  are  now  as  it  were  disowned 
by  the  young  generation*  It  is  not  wonderful ; John- 
son’s opinions  are  fast  becoming  obsolete  : but  his 
style  of  thinking  and  of  living,  we  may  hope,  will 
never  become  obsolete.  I find  in  Johnson’s  Books 
the  indisputablest  traces  of  a great  intellect  and 
great  heart ; — ever  welcome,  under  what  obstruc- 
tions and  perversions  soever.  They  are  sincere 
224 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

words,  those  of  his ; he  means  things  by  them.  A 
wondrous  buckram  style, — the  best  he  could  get 
to  then ; a measured  grandiloquence,  stepping  or 
rather  stalking  along  in  a very  solemn  way,  grown 
obsolete  now ; sometimes  a timid  size  of  phraseology 
not  in  proportion  to  the  contents  of  it : all  this  you 
will  put- up- with.  For  the  phraseology,  tumid  or 
not,  has  always  something  within  it.  So  many  beauti- 
ful styles,  and  books,  with  nothing  in  them  ; — a man 
is  a ma^rfactor  to  the  world  who  writes  such ! They 
are  the  avoidable  kind  ! — Had  Johnson  left  nothing 
but  his  Dictionary,  one  might  have  traced  there  a 
great  intellect,  a genuine  man.  Looking  to  its  clear- 
ness of  definition,  its  general  solidity,  honesty,  in- 
sight and  successful  method,  it  may  be  called  the 
best  of  all  Dictionaries.  There  is  in  it  a kind  of 
architectural  nobleness  ; it  stands  there  like  a great 
solid  square-built  edifice,  finished,  symmetrically 
complete : you  judge  that  a true  Builder  did  it. 

One  word,  in  spite  of  our  haste,  must  be  granted 
to  poor  Bozzy.  He  passes  for  a mean,  inflated, 
gluttonous  creature ; and  was  so  in  many  senses. 
Yet  the  fact  of  his  reverence  for  Johnson  will  ever 
remain  noteworthy.  The  foolish  conceited  Scotch 
Laird,  the  most  conceited  man  of  his  time,  approach- 
ing in  such  awestruck  attitude  the  great  dusty  Iras- 
cible Pedagogue  in  his  mean  garret  there : it  is  a 
genuine  reverence  for  Excellence  ; a worship  for 
Heroes,  at  a time  when  neither  Heroes  nor  wor- 
ship were  surmised  to  exist.  Heroes,  it  would 
seem,  exist  always,  and  a certain  worship  of  them ! 
We  will  also  take  the  liberty  to  deny  altogether 
that  of  the  witty  Frenchman,  That  no  man  is  a 
Hero  to  his  valet-de-chambre.  Or  if  so,  it  is  not 
the  Hero’s  blame,  but  the  Valet’s : that  his  soul, 
namely,  is  a mean  valet-soul ! He  expects  his  Hero 
p 225 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

to  advance  in  royal  stage-trappings,  with  measured 
step,  trains  borne  behind  him,  trumpets  sounding 
before  him.  It  should  stand  rather.  No  man  can 
be  a Gr and- Monarque  to  hisvalet-de-chambre.  Strip 
your  Louis  Quatorze  of  his  king-gear,  and  there  is 
left  nothing  but  a poor  forked  radish  with  a head 
fantastically  carved  ; — admirable  to  no  valet.  The 
Valet  does  not  know  a Hero  when  he  sees  him ! 
Alas,  no : it  requires  a kind  of  Hero  to  do  that ; — 
and  one  of  the  world’s  wants,  in  this  as  in  other 
senses.  Is  for  most  part  want  of  such. 

On  the  whole,  shall  we  not  say,  that  Boswell’s 
admiration  was  well  bestowed ; that  he  could  have 
found  no  soul  in  all  England  so  worthy  of  bending 
down  before?  Shall  we  not  say,  of  this  great  mourn- 
ful Johnson  too,  that  he  guided  his  difficult  confused 
existence  wisely ; led  it  well,  like  a right  valiant 
man  ? That  waste  chaos  of  Authorship  by  Trade ; 
that  waste  chaos  of  Scepticism  in  religion  and  poli- 
tics, in  life -theory  and  life- practice  ; in  his  poverty, 
in  his  dust  and  dimness,  with  the  sick  body  and 
the  rusty  coat : he  made  it  do  for  him,  like  a brave 
man.  Not  wholly  without  a loadstar  in  the  Eternal ; 
he  had  still  a loadstar,  as  the  brave  all  need  to 
have : with  his  eye  set  on  that,  he  would  change 
his  course  for  nothing  in  these  confused  vortices  of 
the  lower  sea  of  Time.  * To  the  Spirit  of  Lies,  bear- 
ing death  and  hunger,  he  would  in  no  wise  strike 
his  flag.’  Brave  old  Samuel : ultimus  Romanomm  ! 

Of  Rousseau  and  his  Heroism  I cannot  say  so 
much.  He  is  not  what  I call  a strong  man.  A 
morbid,  excitable,  spasmodic  man ; at  best,  intense 
rather  than  strong.  He  had  not  ‘the  talent  of 
Silence,’  an  invaluable  talent ; which  few  F rench- 
men,  or  indeed  men  of  any  sort  in  these  times,  excel 
226 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

in ! The  suffering  man  ought  really  ‘to  consume  his 
own  smoke’;  there  is  no  good  in  emitting  smoke  till 
you  have  made  it  into  fire, — which,  in  the  meta- 
phorical sense  too,  all  smoke  is  capable  of  becom- 
ing ! Rousseau  has  not  depth  or  width,  not  calm 
force  for  difficulty ; the  first  characteristic  of  true 
greatness.  A fundamental  mistake  to  call  vehem- 
ence and  rigidity  strength ! A man  is  not  strong 
who  takes  convulsion-fits;  though  six  men  can- 
not hold  him  then.  He  that  can  walk  under  the 
heaviest  weight  without  staggering,  he  is  the  strong 
man.  We  need  forever,  especially  in  these  loud- 
shrieking  days,  to  remind  ourselves  of  that.  A 
man  who  cannot  hold  his  peace,  till  the  time  come 
for  speaking  and  acting,  is  no  right  man. 

Poor  Rousseau’s  face  is  to  me  expressive  of 
him.  A high,  but  narrow  contracted  intensity  in  it : 
bony  brows ; deep,  strait-set  eyes,  in  which  there  is 
something  bewildered-looking, — bewildered,  peer- 
ing with  lynx- eagerness.  A face  full  of  misery,  even 
ignoble  misery,  and  also  of  the  antagonism  against 
that ; something  mean,  plebeian  there,  redeemed 
only  by  intensity:  the  face  of  what  is  called  a Fa- 
natic,— a sadly  contracted  Hero  ! We  name  him  here 
because,  with  all  his  drawbacks,  and  they  are  many, 
he  has  the  first  and  chief  characteristic  of  a Hero : 
he  is  heartily  in  earnest.  In  earnest,  if  ever  man  was ; 
as  none  of  these  French  Philosophes  were.  Nay, 
one  would  say,  of  an  earnestness  too  great  for  his 
otherwise  sensitive,  rather  feeble  nature ; and  which 
indeed  in  the  end  drove  him  into  the  strangest  in- 
coherences, almost  delirations.  There  had  come, 
at  last,  to  be  a kind  of  madness  in  him : his  Ideas 
possessed  him  like  demons ; hurried  him  so  about, 
drove  him  over  steep  places  ! — 

The  fault  and  misery  of  Rousseau  was  what  we 

227 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

easily  name  by  a single  word.  Egoism;  which  is 
indeed  the  source  and  summary  of  all  faults  and 
miseries  whatsoever.  He  had  not  perfected  himself 
into  victory  over  mere  Desire  ; a mean  Hunger,  in 
many  sorts,  was  still  the  motive  principle  of  him. 
I am  afraid  he  was  a very  vain  man ; hungry  for 
the  praises  of  men.  You  remember  Genlis’s  ex- 
perience of  him.  She  took  Jean  Jacques  to  the 
Theatre ; he  bargaining  for  a strict  incognito, — 
“ He  would  not  be  seen  there  for  the  world  ! ’’  The 
curtain  did  happen  nevertheless  to  be  drawn  aside  : 
the  Pit  recognised  Jean  Jacques,  but  took  no  great 
notice  of  him  ! He  expressed  the  bitterest  indigna- 
tion; gloomed  all  evening,  spake  no  other  than 
surly  words.  The  glib  Countess  remained  entirely 
convinced  that  his  anger  was  not  at  being  seen,  but 
at  not  being  applauded  when  seen.  How  the  whole 
nature  of  the  man  is  poisoned ; nothing  but  sus- 
picion, self-isolation,  fierce  moody  ways ! He  could 
not  live  with  anybody.  A man  of  some  rank  from 
the  country  who  visited  him  often,  and  used  to  sit 
with  him,  expressing  all  reverence  and  affection  for 
him,  comes  one  day ; finds  Jean  Jacques  full  of  the 
sourest  unintelligible  humour.  “ Monsieur,”  said 
Jean  Jacques,  with  flaming  eyes,  “ I know  why  you 
come  here.  You  come  to  see  what  a poor  life  I 
lead ; how  little  is  in  my  poor  pot  that  is  boiling 
there.  Well,  look  into  the  pot ! There  is  half  a 
pound  of  meat,  one  carrot  and  three  onions ; that 
is  all : go  and  tell  the  whole  world  that,  if  you  like. 
Monsieur !” — A man  of  this  sort  was  far  gone.  The 
whole  world  got  itself  supplied  with  anecdotes,  for 
light  laughter,  for  a certain  theatrical  interest,  from 
these  perversions  and  contortions  of  poor  Jean 
Jacques.  Alas,  to  him  they  were  not  laughing  or 
theatrical ; too  real  to  him  ! The  contortions  of  a 
228 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

dying  gladiator:  the  crowded  amphitheatre  looks 
on  with  entertainment ; but  the  gladiator  is  in  agonies 
and  dying. 

And  yet  this  Rousseau,  as  we  say,  with  his  pas- 
sionate appeals  to  Mothers,  with  his  Contr at- social, 
with  his  celebrations  of  Nature,  even  of  savage 
life  in  Nature,  did  once  more  touch  upon  Reality, 
struggle  towards  Reality;  was  doing  the  function  of 
a Prophet  to  his  Time.  As  he  could,  and  as  the 
Time  could  ! Strangely  through  all  that  defacement, 
degradation  and  almost  madness,  there  is  in  the 
inmost  heart  of  poor  Rousseau  a spark  of  real 
heavenly  fire.  Once  more,  out  of  the  element  of  that 
withered  mocking  Philosophism,  Scepticism,  and 
Persiflage,  there  has  arisen  in  this  man  the  ineradic- 
able feeling  and  knowledge  that  this  Life  of  ours  is 
true;  not  a Scepticism,  Theorem,  or  Persiflage,  but 
a Fact,  an  awful  Reality.  Nature  had  made  that 
revelation  to  him  ; had  ordered  him  to  speak  it  out. 
He  got  it  spoken  out ; if  not  well  and  clearly,  then 
ill  and  dimly, — as  clearly  as  he  could.  Nay  what 
are  all  errors  and  perversities  of  his,  even  those 
stealings  of  ribbons,  aimless  confused  miseries  and 
vagabondisms,  if  we  will  interpret  them  kindly,  but 
the  blinkard  dazzlement  and  staggerings  to  and  fro 
of  a man  sent  on  an  errand  he  is  too  weak  for,  by  a 
path  he  cannot  yet  find  ? Men  are  led  by  strange 
ways.  One  should  have  tolerance  for  a man,  hope 
of  him  ; leave  him  to  try  yet  what  he  will  do.  While 
life  lasts,  hope  lasts  for  every  man. 

Of  Rousseau’s  literary  talents,  greatly  celebrated 
still  among  his  countrymen,  I do  not  say  much. 
His  Books,  like  himself,  are  what  I call  unhealthy  ; 
not  the  good  sort  of  Books.  There  is  a sensuality 
in  Rousseau.  Combined  with  such  an  intellectual 
gift  as  his,  it  makes  pictures  of  a certain  gorgeous 

229 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

attractiveness : but  they  are  not  genuinely  poetical. 
Not  white  sunlight:  something  operatic;  a kind  of 
rosepink,  artificial  bedizenment.  It  is  frequent,  or 
rather  it  is  universal,  among  the  French  since  his 
time.  Madame  de  Stael  has  something  of  it;  St. 
Pierre  ; and  down  onwards  to  the  present  astonish- 
ing convulsionary  ‘ Literature  of  Desperation,^  it  is 
everywhere  abundant.  That  same  rosepink  is  not 
the  right  hue.  Look  at  a Shakspeare,  at  a Goethe, 
even  at  a Walter  Scott ! He  who  has  once  seen 
into  this,  has  seen  the  difference  of  the  True  from 
the  Sham-True,  and  will  discriminate  them  ever 
afterwards. 

We  had  to  observe  in  Johnson  how  much  good  a 
Prophet,  under  all  disadvantages  and  disorganisa- 
tions, can  accomplish  for  the  world.  In  Rousseau 
we  are  called  to  look  rather  at  the  fearful  amount 
of  evil  which,  under  such  disorganisation,  may 
accompany  the  good.  Historically  it  is  a most 
pregnant  spectacle,  that  of  Rousseau.  Banished 
into  Paris  garrets,  in  the  gloomy  company  of  his 
own  Thoughts  and  Necessities  there ; driven  from 
post  to  pillar ; fretted,  exasperated  till  the  heart  of 
him  went  mad,  he  had  grown  to  feel  deeply  that 
the  world  was  not  his  friend  nor  the  world’s  law. 
It  was  expedient,  if  anyway  possible,  that  such  a 
man  should  not  have  been  set  in  flat  hostility  with 
the  world.  He  could  be  cooped  into  garrets,  laughed 
at  as  a maniac,  left  to  starve  like  a wild-beast  in  his 
cage  ; — but  he  could  not  be  hindered  from  setting 
the  world  on  fire.  The  French  Revolution  found 
its  Evangelist  in  Rousseau.  His  semi-delirious 
speculations  on  the  miseries  of  civilised  life,  the 
preferability  of  the  savage  to  the  civilised,  and  such 
like,  helped  well  to  produce  a whole  delirium  in 
F ranee  generally.  True,  you  may  well  ask.  What 
230 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

could  the  world,  the  governors  of  the  world,  do 
with  such  a man  ? Difficult  to  say  what  the  gover- 
nors of  the  world  could  do  with  him  ! What  he 
could  do  with  them  is  unhappily  clear  enough, — 
guillotine  a great  many  of  them ! Enough  now  of 
Rousseau. 

It  was  a curious  phenomenon,  in  the  withered, 
unbelieving,  secondhand  Eighteenth  Century,  that 
of  a Hero  starting  up,  among  the  artificial  pasteboard 
figures  and  productions,  in  the  guise  of  a Robert 
Burns.  Like  a little  well  in  the  rocky  desert 
places, — like  a sudden  splendour  of  Heaven  in  the 
artificial  Vauxhall ! People  knew  not  what  to  make 
of  it.  They  took  it  for  a piece  of  the  Vauxhall  fire- 
work ; alas,  it  let  itself  be  so  taken,  though  struggling 
half- blindly,  as  in  bitterness  of  death,  against  that ! 
Perhaps  no  man  had  such  a false  reception  from  his 
fellow-men.  Once  more  a very  wasteful  life-drama 
was  enacted  under  the  sun. 

The  tragedy  of  Burns’s  life  is  known  to  all  of  you. 
Surely  we  may  say,  if  discrepancy  between  place 
held  and  place  merited  constitute  perverseness  of 
lot  for  a man,  no  lot  could  be  more  perverse  than 
Burns’s.  Among  those  secondhand  acting-figures, 
mimes  for  most  part,  of  the  Eighteenth  Century, 
once  more  a giant  Original  Man ; one  of  those  men 
who  reach  down  to  the  perennial  Deeps,  who  take 
rank  with  the  Heroic  among  men : and  he  was  born 
in  a poor  Ayrshire  hut.  The  largest  soul  of  all  the 
British  lands  came  among  us  in  the  shape  of  a hard- 
handed  Scottish  Peasant. — His  Father,  a poor  toiling 
man,  tried  various  things ; did  not  succeed  in  any  ; 
was  involved  in  continual  difficulties.  The  Steward, 
Factor  as  the  Scotch  call  him,  used  to  send  letters 
and  threatenings.  Burns  says,  ‘ which  threw  us  all 

231 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

into  tears/  The  brave  hard-tolling,  hard-suflFering 
Father,  his  brave  heroine  of  a wife ; and  those 
children,  of  whom  Robert  was  one  ! In  this  Earth, 
so  wide  otherwise,  no  shelter  for  them.  The  letters 
‘ threw  us  all  into  tears  ’ : figure  it.  The  brave 
Father,  I say  always; — a silent  Hero  and  Poet; 
without  whom  the  son  had  never  been  a speaking 
one ! Burns’s  Schoolmaster  came  afterwards  to 
London,  learnt  what  good  society  was;  but  de- 
clares that  in  no  meeting  of  men  did  he  ever  enjoy 
better  discourse  than  at  the  hearth  of  this  peasant. 
And  his  poor  ‘ seven  acres  of  nursery-ground,’ — not 
that,  nor  the  miserable  patch  of  clay-farm,  nor  any- 
thing he  tried  to  get  a living  by,  would  prosper  with 
him ; he  had  a sore  unequal  battle  all  his  days. 
But  he  stood  to  it  valiantly ; a wise,  faithful,  un- 
conquerable man  ; — swallowing  down  how  many 
sore  sufferings  daily  into  silence ; fighting  like  an 
unseen  Hero, — nobody  publishing  newspaper  para- 
graphs about  his  nobleness ; voting  pieces  of  plate 
to  him  ! However,  he  was  not  lost ; nothing  is  lost. 
Robert  is  there ; the  outcome  of  him, — and  indeed 
of  many  generations  of  such  as  him. 

This  Burns  appeared  under  every  disadvantage  s 
uninstructed,  poor,  born  only  to  hard  manual  toil ; 
and  writing,  when  it  came  to  that,  in  a rustic  special 
dialect,  known  only  to  a small  province  of  the 
country  he  lived  in.  Had  he  written,  even  what  he 
did  write,  in  the  general  language  of  England,  I 
doubt  not  he  had  already  become  universally  re- 
cognised as  being,  or  capable  to  be,  one  of  our 
greatest  men.  That  he  should  have  tempted  so 
many  to  penetrate  through  the  rough  husk  of  that 
dialect  of  his,  is  proof  that  there  lay  something  far 
from  common  within  it.  He  has  gained  a certain 
recognition,  and  is  continuing  to  do  so  over  all 
232 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

quarters  of  our  wide  Saxon  world : wheresoever  a 
Saxon  dialect  is  spoken,  it  begins  to  be  understood, 
by  personal  inspection  of  this  and  the  other,  that 
one  of  the  most  considerable  Saxon  men  of  the 
Eighteenth  century  was  an  Ayrshire  Peasant 
named  Robert  Burns.  Yes,  I will  say,  here  too 
was  a piece  of  the  right  Saxon  stuff : strong  as  the 
Harz-rock,  rooted  in  the  depths  of  the  world ; — 
rock,  yet  with  wells  of  living  softness  in  it ! A wild 
impetuous  whirlwind  of  passion  and  faculty  slum- 
bered quiet  there ; such  heavenly  melody  dwelling 
in  the  heart  of  it.  A noble  rough  genuineness; 
homely,  rustic,  honest ; true  simplicity  of  strength  ; 
with  its  lightning-fire,  with  its  soft  dewy  pity ; — 
like  the  old  Norse  Thor,  the  Peasant-god ! — 
Burns’s  Brother  Gilbert,  a man  of  much  sense  and 
worth,  has  told  me  that  Robert,  in  his  young  days, 
in  spite  of  their  hardship,  was  usually  the  gayest  of 
speech ; a fellow  of  infinite  frolic,  laughter,  sense 
and  heart ; far  pleasanter  to  hear  there,  stript  cut- 
ting peats  in  the  bog,  or  such  like,  than  he  ever 
afterwards  knew  him.  I can  well  believe  It.  This 
basis  of  mirth  C fond  gaillard/  as  old  Marquis 
Mirabeau  calls  it),  a primal-element  of  sunshine 
and  joyfulness,  coupled  with  his  other  deep  and 
earnest  qualities,  is  one  of  the  most  attractive  cha- 
racteristics of  Burns.  A large  fund  of  Hope  dwells 
in  him;  spite  of  his  tragical  history,  he  is  not  a 
mourning  man.  He  shakes  his  sorrows  gallantly 
aside  ; bounds  forth  victorious  over  them.  It  is  as 
the  Hon  shaking  ‘ dew-drops  from  his  mane ; ’ as  the 
swift-bounding  horse,  that  laughs  at  the  shaking  of 
the  spear. — But  indeed,  Hope,  Mirth,  of  the  sort 
like  Burns’s,  are  they  not  the  outcome  properly  of 
warm  generous  affection, — such  as  is  the  beginning 
of  all  to  every  man? 


233 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

You  would  think  it  strange  if  I called  Burns  the 
most  gifted  British  soul  we  had  in  all  that  century 
of  his  : and  yet  I believe  the  day  is  coming  when 
there  will  be  little  danger  in  saying  so.  His  writ- 
ings, all  that  he  did  under  such  obstructions,  are 
only  a poor  fragment  of  him.  Professor  Stewart 
remarked  very  justly,  what  indeed  is  true  of  all 
Poets  good  for  much,  that  his  poetry  was  not  any 
particular  faculty  ; but  the  general  result  of  a natu- 
rally vigorous  original  mind  expressing  itself  in 
that  way.  Burns’s  gifts,  expressed  in  conversation, 
are  the  theme  of  all  that  ever  heard  him.  All  kinds 
of  gifts : from  the  gracefullest  utterances  of  courtesy, 
to  the  highest  fire  of  passionate  speech  ; loud  floods 
of  mirth,  soft  wailings  of  affection,  laconic  empha- 
sis, clear  piercing  insight ; all  was  in  him.  Witty 
duchesses  celebrate  him  as  a man  whose  speech 
‘ led  them  off*  their  feet/  This  is  beautiful : but 
still  more  beautiful  that  which  Mr.  Lockhart  has 
recorded,  which  I have  more  than  once  alluded  to. 
How  the  waiters  and  ostlers  at  inns  would  get  out 
of  bed,  and  come  crowding  to  hear  this  man  speak  ! 
Waiters  and  ostlers : — they  too  were  men,  and  here 
was  a man  ! I have  heard  much  about  his  speech ; 
but  one  of  the  best  things  I ever  heard  of  it  was, 
last  year,  from  a venerable  gentleman  long  fami- 
liar with  him.  That  it  was  speech  distinguished  by 
always  having  something  in  it.  “ He  spoke  rather 
little  than  much,”  this  old  man  told  me  ; sat 
rather  silent  in  those  early  days,  as  in  the  company 
of  persons  above  him ; and  always  when  he  did 
speak,  it  was  to  throw  new  light  on  the  matter.”  I 
know  not  why  any  one  should  ever  speak  other- 
wise ! — But  if  we  look  at  his  general  force  of  soul, 
his  healthy  robustness  everyway,  the  rugged  down- 
rightness,  penetration,  generous  valour  and  man- 
234 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

fulness  that  was  in  him, — where  shall  we  readily 
find  a better-gifted  man  ? 

Among  the  great  men  of  the  Eighteenth  Century, 
I sometimes  feel  as  if  Burns  might  be  found  to 
resemble  Mirabeau  more  than  any  other.  They 
differ  widely  in  vesture ; yet  look  at  them  intrin- 
sically. There  is  the  same  burly  thicknecked 
strength  of  body  as  of  soul ; — built,  in  both  cases, 
on  what  the  old  Marquis  calls  a fond  gaillard.  By 
nature,  by  course  of  breeding,  indeed  by  nation, 
Mirabeau  has  much  more  of  bluster;  a noisy, 
forward,  unresting  man.  But  the  characteristic  of 
Mirabeau  too  is  veracity  and  sense,  power  of  true 
insight,  superiority  of  vision.  The  thing  that  he  says 
is  worth  remembering.  It  is  a flash  of  insight  into 
some  object  or  other  ; so  do  both  these  men  speak. 
The  same  raging  passions  ; capable  too  in  both 
of  manifesting  themselves  as  the  tenderest  noble 
affections.  Wit,  wild  laughter,  energy,  directness, 
sincerity:  these  were  in  both.  The  types  of  the 
two  men  are  not  dissimilar.  Burns  too  could  have 
governed,  debated  in  National  Assemblies  ; politi- 
cised, as  few  could.  Alas,  the  courage  which  had 
to  exhibit  itself  in  capture  of  smuggling  schooners 
in  the  Solway  F rith ; in  keeping  silence  over  so  much, 
where  no  good  speech,  but  only  inarticulate  rage 
was  possible : this  might  have  bellowed  forth  Ushers 
de  Breze  and  the  like ; and  made  itself  visible  to 
all  men,  in  managing  of  kingdoms,  in  ruling  of 
great  ever- memorable  epochs ! But  they  said  to 
him  reprovingly,  his  Official  Superiors  said,  and 
wrote:  ‘You  are  to  work,  not  think.’  Of  your 
thinking-ieLCxxXty , the  greatest  in  this  land,  we  have 
no  need ; you  are  to  gauge  beer  there ; for  that 
only  are  you  wanted.  Very  notable ; — and  worth 
mentioning,  though  we  know  what  is  to  be  said  and 

235 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

answered ! As  if  Thought,  Power  of  Thinking, 
were  not,  at  all  times,  in  all  places  and  situations 
of  the  world,  precisely  the  thing  that  was  wanted. 
The  fatal  man,  is  he  not  always  the  unthinking 
man,  the  man  who  cannot  think  and  see;  but  only 
grope,  and  hallucinate,  and  missee  the  nature  of  the 
thing  he  works  with  ? He  missees  it,  mistakes  it  as 
we  say;  takes  it  for  one  thing,  and  it  is  another 
thing, — and  leaves  him  standing  like  a Futility 
there  ! He  is  the  fatal  man ; unutterably  fatal,  put 
in  the  high  places  of  men. — “Why  complain  of 
this?”  say  some:  “Strength  is  mournfully  denied 
its  arena  ; that  was  true  from  of  old,”  Doubtless ; 
and  the  worse  for  the  arena,  answer  I ! Complaining 
profits  little  ; stating  cf  the  truth  may  profit.  That 
a Europe,  with  its  French  Revolution  just  break- 
ing out,  finds  no  need  of  a Burns  except  for  gauging 
beer, — is  a thing  for  one,  cannot  rejoice  at ! — 

Once  more  we  have  to  say  here  that  the  chief 
quality  of  Burns  is  the  sincerity  of  him.  So  in  his 
Poetry,  so  in  his  Life.  The  Song  he  sings  is  not 
of  fantasticalities ; it  is  of  a thing  felt,  really  there ; 
the  prime  merit  of  this,  as  of  all  in  him,  and  of  his 
Life  generally,  is  truth.  The  Life  of  Burns  is  what 
we  may  call  a great  tragic  sincerity.  A sort  of 
savage  sincerity, — not  cruel,  far  from  that ; but 
wild,  wrestling  naked  with  the  truth  of  things.  In 
that  sense,  there  is  something  of  the  savage  in  all 
great  men. 

Hero-worship, — Odin,  Burns  ? Well ; these  Men 
of  Letters  too  were  not  without  a kind  of  Hero- 
worship  : but  what  a strange  condition  has  that  got 
into  now  ! The  waiters  and  ostlers  of  Scotch  inns, 
prying  about  the  door,  eager  to  catch  any  word  that 
fell  from  Burns,  were  doing  unconscious  reverence 
to  the  Heroic.  Johnson  had  his  Boswell  for  wor- 
236 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

shiper.  Rousseau  had  worshipers  enough ; princes 
calling  on  him  in  his  mean  garret ; the  great,  the 
beautiful  doing  reverence  to  the  poor  moonstruck 
man.  F or  himself  a most  portentous  contradiction ; 
the  two  ends  of  his  life  not  to  be  brought  into 
harmony.  He  sits  at  the  tables  of  grandees ; and 
has  to  copy  music  for  his  own  living.  He  cannot 
even  get  his  music  copied  : “ By  dint  of  dining  out,” 
says  he,  I run  the  risk  of  dying  by  starvation  at 
home.”  F or  his  worshipers  too  a most  questionable 
thing  ! If  doing  Hero-worship  well  or  badly  be  the 
test  of  vital  wellbeing  or  illbeing  to  a generation,  can 
we  say  that  these  generations  are  very  first-rate  ? — 
And  yet  our  heroic  Men  of  Letters  do  teach, 
govern,  are  kings,  priests,  or  what  you  like  to  call 
them ; intrinsically  there  is  no  preventing  it  by  any 
means  whatever.  The  world  has  to  obey  him  who 
thinks  and  sees  in  the  world.  The  world  can  alter 
the  manner  of  that ; can  either  have  it  as  blessed 
continuous  summer-sunshine,  or  as  unblessed  black 
thunder  and  tornado, — with  unspeakable  difference 
of  profit  for  the  world  ! The  manner  of  it  is  very 
alterable ; the  matter  and  fact  of  it  is  not  alterable 
by  any  power  under  the  sky.  Light ; or,  failing 
that,  lightning  : the  world  can  take  its  choice.  Not 
whether  we  call  an  Odin  god,  prophet,  priest,  or 
what  we  call  him ; but  whether  we  believe  the 
word  he  tells  us : there  it  all  lies.  If  it  be  a true 
word,  we  shall  have  to  believe  it ; believing  it,  we 
shall  have  to  do  it.  What  name  or  welcome  we  give 
him  or  it,  is  a point  that  concerns  ourselves  mainly. 
7t,  the  new  Truth,  new  deeper  revealing  of  the 
Secret  of  this  Universe,  is  verily  of  the  nature  of 
a message  from  on  high ; and  must  and  will  have 
itself  obeyed. — 

My  last  remark  is  on  that  notablest  phasis  of 

237 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Burns’s  history, — his  visit  to  Edinburgh.  Often  it 
seems  to  me  as  if  his  demeanour  there  were  the 
highest  proof  he  gave  of  what  a fund  of  worth  and 
genuine  manhood  was  in  him.  If  we  think  of  it, 
few  heavier  burdens  could  be  laid  on  the  strength 
of  a man.  So  sudden  ; all  common  Lionism,  which 
ruins  innumerable  men,  was  as  nothing  to  this.  It 
is  as  if  Napoleon  had  been  made  a King  of,  not 
gradually,  but  at  once  from  the  Artillery  Lieu- 
tenancy in  the  Regiment  La  F ere.  Burns,  still  only 
in  his  twenty-seventh  year,  is  no  longer  even  a 
ploughman ; he  is  flying  to  the  West  Indies  to  escape 
disgrace  and  a Jail.  This  month  he  is  a ruined 
peasant,  his  wages  seven  pounds  a year,  and  these 
gone  from  him : next  month  he  is  in  the  blaze  of 
rank  and  beauty,  handing  down  jewelled  Duchesses 
to  dinner ; the  cynosure  of  all  eyes  ! Adversity  is 
sometimes  hard  upon  a man ; but  for  one  man  who 
can  stand  prosperity,  there  are  a hundred  that  will 
stand  adversity.  I admire  much  the  way  in  which 
Burns  met  all  this.  Perhaps  no  man  one  could  point 
out,  was  ever  so  sorely  tried,  and  so  little  forgot 
himself.  Tranquil,  unastonished ; not  abashed,  not 
inflated,  neither  awkwardness  nor  affectation : he 
feels  that  he  there  is  the  man  Robert  Burns ; that 
the  ‘ rank  is  but  the  guinea-stamp  ’ ; that  the  cele- 
brity is  but  the  candle-light,  which  will  show  what 
man,  not  in  the  least  make  him  a better  or  other 
man  ! Alas,  it  may  readily,  unless  he  look  to  it, 
make  him  a worse  man ; a wretched  inflated  wind- 
bag,— inflated  till  he  burst,  and  become  a dead  lion; 
for  whom  as  some  one  has  said,  ‘ there  is  no  resur- 
rection of  the  body  ’ ; worse  than  a living  dog  ! — 
Burns  is  admirable  here. 

And  yet,  alas,  as  I have  observed  elsewhere, 
these  Lion-hunters  were  the  ruin  and  death  of 
238 


THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

Burns.  It  was  they  that  rendered  it  impossible  for 
him  to  live  ! They  gathered  round  him  in  his  F arm ; 
hindered  his  industry  ; no  place  was  remote  enough 
from  them.  He  could  not  get  his  Lionism  forgotten, 
honestly  as  he  was  disposed  to  do  so.  He  falls  into 
discontents,  into  miseries,  faults;  the  world  get- 
ting ever  more  desolate  for  him  ; health,  character, 
peace  of  mind,  all  gone  ; — solitary  enough  now.  It 
is  tragical  to  think  of ! These  men  came  but  to  see 
him  ; it  was  out  of  no  sympathy  with  him,  nor  no 
hatred  to  him.  They  came  to  get  a little  amuse- 
ment : they  got  their  amusement ; — and  the  Hero’s 
life  went  for  it ! 

Richter  says,  in  the  Island  of  Sumatra  there  is 
a kind  of  ‘Light-chafers,’  large  Fire-flies,  which 
people  stick  upon  spits,  and  illuminate  the  ways 
with  at  night.  Persons  of  condition  can  thus  travel 
with  a pleasant  radiance,  which  they  much  admire. 
Great  honour  to  the  Fire-flies ! But  — ! — 


239 


/ 


\ ■ 


LECTURE  SIX 

THE  HERO  AS  KING. 
CROMWELL,  NAPO- 
LEON: MODERN 

REVOLUTIONISM 

Friday,  22nd  May,  1840 


241 


LECTURE  VI.  THE  HERO 
AS  KING 

WE  come  now  to  the  last  form  of 
Heroism ; that  which  we  call  King- 
ship.  The  Commander  over  Men; 
he  to  whose  will  our  wills  are  to  be 
subordinated,  and  loyally  surrender  themselves, 
and  find  their  welfare  in  doing  so,  may  be  reckoned 
the  most  important  of  Great  Men.  He  is  practi- 
cally the  summary  for  us  of  all  the  various  figures 
of  Heroism ; Priest,  Teacher,  whatsoever  of  earthly 
or  of  spiritual  dignity  we  can  fancy  to  reside  in  a 
man,  embodies  itself  here,  to  command  over  us,  to 
furnish  us  with  constant  practical  teaching,  to  tell^ 
us  for  the  day  and  hour  what  we  are  to  do.  He  is 
called  Rex,  Regulator,  Roi:  our  own  name  is  still 
better ; King,  Konning,  which  means  Can-ning,  Able- 
man. 

Numerous  considerations,  pointing  towards  deep, 
questionable,  and  indeed  unfathomable  regions,  pre- 
sent themselves  here  : on  the  most  of  which  we  must 
resolutely  for  the  present  forbear  to  speak  at  all. 
As  Burke  said  that  perhaps  fair  Trial  by  Jury  was 
the  soul  of  Government,  and  that  all  legislation, 
administration,  parliamentary  debating,  and  the  rest 
of  it,  went  on,  in  ‘ order  to  bring  twelve  impartial 
men  into  a jury-box;’ — so,  by  much  stronger  rea- 
son, may  I say  here,  that  the  finding  of  your  Ableman, 
and  getting  him  invested  with  the  symbols  of  ability, 
with  dignity,  worship  (worth-ship),  royalty, kinghood, 
or  whatever  we  call  it,  so  that  he  may  actually  have 
room  to  guide  according  to  his  faculty  of  doing 
it, — is  the  business,  well  or  ill  accomplished,  of  all 
social  procedure  whatsoever  in  this  world  ! Hust- 
ings-speeches.  Parliamentary  motions, Reform  Bills, 
French  Revolutions,  all  mean  at  heart  this ; or  else 

243 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

nothing.  Find  in  any  country  the  Ablest  Man  that 
exists  there ; raise  him  to  the  supreme  place,  and 
loyally  reverence  him : you  have  a perfect  govern- 
ment for  that  country  ; no  ballot-box,  parliamentary 
eloquence,  voting,  constitution-building,  or  other 
machinery  whatsoever  can  improve  it  a whit.  It  is 
in  the  perfect  state ; an  ideal  country.  The  Ablest 
Man ; he  means  also  the  truest-hearted,  justest,  the 
Noblest  Man : what  he  tells  us  to  do  must  be  pre- 
cisely the  wisest,  fittest,  that  we  could  anywhere  or 
anyhow  learn ; — the  thing  which  it  will  in  all  ways 
behove  us,  with  right  loyal  thankfulness,  and  no- 
thing doubting,  to  do  ! Our  doing  bmA  life  were  then, 
so  far  as  government  could  regulate  it,  well  regu- 
lated ; that  were  the  ideal  of  constitutions. 

Alas,  we  know  very  well  that  Ideals  can  never 
be  completely  embodied  in  practice.  Ideals  must 
ever  lie  a very  great  way  off;  and  we  will  right 
thankfully  content  ourselves  with  any  not  intoler- 
able approximation  thereto ! Let  no  man,  as  Schiller 
says,  too  querulously  ‘ measure  by  a scale  of  perfec- 
tion the  meagre  product  of  reality’  in  this  poor 
world  of  ours.  We  will  esteem  him  no  wise  man  ; 
we  will  esteem  him  a sickly,  discontented,  foolish 
man.  And  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  never  to  be 
forgotten  that  Ideals  do  exist ; that  if  they  be  not 
approximated  to  at  all,  the  whole  matter  goes  to 
wreck ! Infallibly.  No  bricklayer  builds  a wall 
perfectly  perpendicular,  mathematically  this  is  not 
possible  ; a certain  degree  of  perpendicularity  suf- 
fices him  ; and  he,  like  a good  bricklayer,  who  must 
have  done  with  his  job,  leaves  it  so.  And  yet  if  he 
sway  too  much  from  the  perpendicular ; above  all,  if 
he  throw  plummet  and  level  quite  away  from  him, 
and  pile  brick  on  brick  heedless,  just  as  it  comes  to 
hand — ! Such  bricklayer,  I think,  is  in  a bad  way, 
244 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

He  has  forgotten  himself : but  the  Law  of  Gravita- 
tion does  not  forget  to  act  on  him ; he  and  his  wall 
rush-down  into  confused  welter  of  ruin  ! — 

This  is  the  history  of  all  rebellions,  French  Re- 
volutions, social  explosions  in  ancient  or  modern 
times.  You  have  put  the  too  Unable  Man  at  the 
head  of  affairs  ! The  too  ignoble,  unvaliant,  fatuous 
man.  You  have  forgotten  that  there  is  any  rule, 
or  natural  necessity  whatever,  of  putting  the  Able 
Man  there.  Brick  must  lie  on  brick  as  it  may  and 
can.  Unable  Simulacrum  of  Ability,  quacks  in  a 
word,  must  adjust  himself  with  quack,  in  all  manner 
of  administration  of  human  things ; — which  accord- 
ingly lie  unadministered,  fermenting  into  unmea- 
sured masses  of  failure,  of  indigent  misery ; in  the 
outward,  and  in  the  Inward  or  spiritual,  miserable 
millions  stretch-out  the  hand  for  their  due  supply, 
and  it  is  not  there.  The  ‘ law  of  gravitation  ’ acts ; 
Nature’s  laws  do  none  of  them  forget  to  act.  The 
miserable  millions  burst-forth  into  Sansculottism,  or 
some  other  sort  of  madness : bricks  and  bricklayer 
lie  as  a fatal  chaos  ! — 

Much  sorry  stuff,  written  some  hundred  years 
ago  or  more,  about  the  ‘Divine  right  of  Kings,’ 
moulders  unread  now  in  the  Public  Libraries  of  this 
country.  Far  be  it  from  us  to  disturb  the  calm  pro- 
cess by  which  it  is  disappearing  harmlessly  from  the 
earth,  in  those  repositories ! At  the  same  time,  not 
to  let  the  immense  rubbish  go  without  leaving  us, 
as  it  ought,  some  soul  of  it  behind, — I will  say  that 
it  did  mean  something  ; something  true,  which  it  is 
important  for  us  and  all  men  to  keep  in  mind.  To 
assert  that  in  whatever  man  you  chose  to  lay  hold 
of  (by  this  or  the  other  plan  of  clutching  at  him) ; 
and  clapt  a round  piece  of  metal  on  the  head  of,  and 
called  King, — there  straightway  came  to  reside  a 

245 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

divine  virtue,  so  that  he  became  a kind  of  god,  and 
a Divinity  inspired  him  with  faculty  and  right  to 
rule  over  you  to  all  lengths  : this, — what  can  we  do 
with  this  but  leave  it  to  rot  silently  in  the  Public 
Libraries  ? But  I will  say  withal,  and  that  is  what 
these  Divine-right  men  meant.  That  in  Kings,  and 
in  all  human  Authorities,  and  relations  that  men 
god-created  can  form  among  each  other,  there  is 
verily  either  a Divine  Right  or  else  a Diabolic 
Wrong  ; one  or  the  other  of  these  two  ! For  it  is 
false  altogether,  what  the  last  Sceptical  Century 
taught  us,  that  this  world  is  a steamengine.  There 
is  a God  in  this  world ; and  a God’s- sanction,  or  else 
the  violation  of  such,  does  look-out  from  all  ruling 
and  obedience,  from  all  moral  acts  of  men.  There 
is  no  act  more  moral  between  men  than  that  of  rule 
and  obedience.  Woe  to  him  that  claims  obedience 
when  it  is  not  due ; woe  to  him  that  refuses  it  when 
it  is ! God’s  law  is  in  that,  I say,  however  the 
Parchment-laws  may  run : there  is  a Divine  Right 
or  else  a Diabolic  Wrong  at  the  heart  of  every  claim 
that  one  man  makes  upon  another. 

It  can  do  none  of  us  harm  to  reflect  on  this : in 
all  the  relations  of  life  it  will  concern  us  ; in  Loyalty 
and  Royalty,  the  highest  of  these.  I esteem  the 
modern  error.  That  all  goes  by  self-interest  and  the 
checking  and  balancing  of  greedy  knaveries,  and 
that,  in  short,  there  is  nothing  divine  whatever  in 
the  association  of  men,  a still  more  despicable  error, 
natural  as  it  is  to  an  unbelieving  century,  than  that 
of  a ‘ divine  right  ’ in  people  called  Kings.  I say.  Find 
me  the  true  Konning,  King,  or  Able- man,  and  he  has 
a divine  right  over  me.  That  we  knew  in  some 
tolerable  measure  how  to  find  him,  and  that  all  men 
were  ready  to  acknowledge  his  divine  right  when 
found:  this  is  precisely  the  healing  which  a sick 
246 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

world  is  everywhere,  in  these  ages,  seeking  after ! 
The  true  King,  as  guide  of  the  practical,  has  ever 
something  of  the  Pontiff  in  him, — guide  of  the 
spiritual,  from  which  all  practice  has  its  rise.  This 
too  is  a true  saying.  That  the  King  is  head  of  the 
Church. — But  we  will  leave  the  Polemic  stuflF  of  a 
dead  century  to  lie  quiet  on  its  bookshelves. 

Certainly  it  is  a fearful  business,  that  of  having 
your  Able- man  to  seek,  and  not  knowing  in  what 
manner  to  proceed  about  it ! That  is  the  world’s 
sad  predicament  in  these  times  of  ours.  They  are 
times  of  revolution,  and  have  long  been.  The  brick- 
layer with  his  bricks,  no  longer  heedful  of  plummet 
or  the  law  of  gravitation,  have  toppled,  tumbled, 
and  it  all  welters  as  we  see  ! But  the  beginning  of 
it  was  not  the  French  Revolution ; that  is  rather  the 
end,  we  can  hope.  It  were  truer  to  say,  the  beginning 
was  three  centuries  farther  back : in  the  Reforma- 
tion of  Luther.  That  the  thing  which  still  called 
itself  Christian  Church  had  become  a Falsehood, 
and  brazenly  went  about  pretending  to  pardon  men’s 
sins  for  metallic  coined  money,  and  to  do  much  else 
which  in  the  everlasting  truth  of  Nature  it  did  not 
now  do ; here  lay  the  vital  malady.  The  inward 
being  wrong,  all  outward  went  ever  more  and  more 
wrong.  Belief  died  away ; all  was  Doubt,  Disbelief. 
The  builder  cast  away  his  plummet ; said  to  himself, 
“ What  is  gravitation  ? Brick  lies  on  brick  there ! ” 
Alas,  does  it  not  still  sound  strange  to  many  of  us, 
the  assertion  that  there  is  a God’s-truth  in  the  busi- 
ness of  god-created  men ; that  all  is  not  a kind  of 
grimace,  an  ‘ expediency, ’diplomacy,  one  knows  not 
what ! — 

From  that  first  necessary  assertion  of  Luther’s, 
‘‘You,  self-styled  Papa,  you  are  no  Father  in  God 

247 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

at  all ; you  are — a Chimera,  whom  I know  not  how 
to  name  in  polite  language  !” — from  that  onwards 
to  the  shout  which  rose  round  Camille  Desmoulins 
in  the  Palais-Royal,  ^^Aux  armes  /”  when  the  people 
had  burst-up  against  all  manner  of  Chimeras, — I 
find  a natural  historical  sequence.  That  shout  too, 
so  frightful,  half-infernal,  was  a great  matter.  Once 
more  the  voice  of  awakened  nations ; — starting  con- 
fusedly, as  out  of  nightmare,  as  out  of  death- sleep, 
into  some  dim  feeling  that  Life  was  real ; that  God’s- 
world  was  not  an  expediency  and  diplomacy  ! In- 
fernal;— yes,  since  they  would  not  have  it  otherwise. 
Infernal,  since  not  celestial  or  terrestrial ! Hollow- 
ness, insincerity  has  to  cease ; sincerity  of  some  sort 
has  to  begin.  Cost  what  it  may,  reigns  of  terror, 
horrors  of  French  Revolution  or  what  else,  we  have 
to  return  to  truth.  Here  is  a Truth,  as  I said  : a 
Truth  clad  in  hellfire,  since  they  would  not  but 
have  it  so  ! — 

A common  theory  among  considerable  parties  of 
men  in  England  and  elsewhere  used  to  be,  that  the 
French  Nation  had,  ifi  those  days,  as  it  were  gone 
mad;  that  the  French  Revolution  was  a general  act 
of  insanity,  a temporary  conversion  of  France  and 
large  sections  of  the  world  into  a kind  of  Bedlam. 
The  Event  had  risen  and  raged ; but  was  a madness 
and  nonentity, — gone  now  happily  into  the  region 
of  Dreams  and  the  Picturesque ! — To  such  comfort- 
able philosophers,  the  Three  Days  of  July  1830  must 
have  been  a surprising  phenomenon.  Here  is  the 
French  Nation  risen  again,  in  musketry  and  death- 
struggle,  out  shooting  and  being  shot,  to  make  that 
same  mad  French  Revolution  good ! The  sons  and 
grandsons  of  those  men,  it  would  seem,  persist  in 
the  enterprise : they  do  not  disown  it ; they  will  have 
it  made  good ; will  have  themselves  shot,  if  it  be  not 
248 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

made  good ! To  philosophers  who  had  made-up 
their  life-system  on  that  ‘madness’  quietus,  no  phe- 
nomenon could  be  more  alarming.  Poor  Niebuhr, 
they  say,  the  Prussian  Professor  and  Historian,  fell 
broken-hearted  in  consequence  ; sickened,  if  we 
can  believe  it,  and  died  of  the  Three  Days  ! It  was 
surely  not  a very  heroic  death  ; — little  better  than 
Racine’s,  dying  because  Louis  Fourteenth  looked 
sternly  on  him  once.  The  world  had  stood  some 
considerable  shocks,  in  its  time ; might  have  been  ex- 
pected to  survive  the  Three  Days  too,  and  be  found 
turning  on  its  axis  after  even  them ! The  Three 
Days  told  all  mortals  that  the  old  French  Revolu- 
tion, mad  as  it  might  look,  was  not  a transitory 
ebullition  of  Bedlam,  but  a genuine  product  of  this 
Earth  where  we  all  live  ; that  it  was  verily  a Fact, 
and  that  the  world  in  general  would  do  well  every- 
where to  regard  it  as  such. 

Truly,  without  the  French  Revolution,  one  would 
not  know  what  to  make  of  an  age  like  this  at  all. 
We  will  hail  the  French  Revolution,  as  shipwrecked 
mariners  might  the  sternest  rock,  in  a world  other- 
wise all  of  baseless  sea  and  waves,  A true  Apoca- 
lypse, though  a terrible  one,  to  this  false  withered 
artificial  time ; testifying  once  more  that  Nature  is 
vretem?itura\ ; if  not  divine,  then  diabolic  ; that  Sem- 
blance is  not  Reality ; that  it  has  to  become  Reality, 
or  the  world  will  take-fire  under  it, — burn  it  into 
what  it  is,  namely  Nothing ! Plausibility  has  ended; 
empty  Routine  has  ended;  much  has  ended.  This, 
as  with  a Trump  of  Doom,  has  been  proclaimed  to 
all  men.  They  are  the  wisest  who  will  learn  it 
soonest.  Long  confused  generations  before  it  be 
learned ; peace  impossible  till  it  be ! The  earnest 
man,  surrounded,  as  ever,  with  a world  of  incon- 
sistencies, can  await  patiently,  patiently  strive  to  do 

249 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

his  work,  in  the  midst  of  that.  Sentence  of  Death  is 
written  down  in  Heaven  against  all  that ; sentence 
of  Death  is  now  proclaimed  on  the  Earth  against  it : 
this  he  with  his  eyes  may  see.  And  surely,  I should 
say,  considering  the  other  side  of  the  matter,  what 
enormous  difficulties  lie  there,  and  how  fast,  fear- 
fully fast,  in  all  countries,  the  inexorable  demand 
for  solution  of  them  is  pressing  on, — he  may  easily 
find  other  work  to  do  than  labouring  in  the  Sans- 
culottic  province  at  this  time  of  day ! 

To  me,  in  these  circumstances,  that  of  ‘ Hero- 
worship’  becomes  a fact  inexpressibly  precious; 
the  most  solacing  fact  one  sees  in  the  world  at 
present.  There  is  an  everlasting  hope  in  it  for 
the  management  of  the  world.  Had  all  traditions, 
arrangements,  creeds,  societies  that  men  ever  insti- 
tuted, sunk  away,  this  would  remain.  The  certainty 
of  Heroes  being  sent  us ; our  faculty,  our  necessity, 
to  reverence  Heroes  when  sent:  it  shines  like  a 
pole-star  through  smoke-clouds,  dust-clouds,  and  all 
manner  of  down-rushing  and  conflagration. 

Hero-worship  would  have  sounded  very  strange 
to  those  workers  and  fighters  in  the  French  Revo- 
lution. Not  reverence  for  Great  Men ; not  any 
hope  or  belief,  or  even  wish,  that  Great  Men  could 
again  appear  in  the  world  ! Nature,  turned  into  a 
* Machine,’  was  as  if  effete  now ; could  not  any 
longer  produce  Great  Men: — I can  tell  her,  she 
may  give-up  the  trade  altogether,  then  ; we  cannot 
do  without  Great  Men ! — But  neither  have  I any 
quarrel  with  that  of ‘Liberty  and  Equality’;  with 
the  faith  that,  wise  great  men  being  impossible,  a 
level  immensity  of  foolish  small  men  would  suffice. 
It  was  a natural  faith  then  and  there.  “ Liberty 
and  Equality;  no  Authority  needed  any  longer. 
Hero-worship,  reverence  for  such  Authorities,  has 
25t) 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

proved  false,  is  itself  a falsehood ; no  more  of  it ! 
We  have  had  such  forgeries,  we  will  now  trust 
nothing.  So  many  base  plated  coins  passing  in  the 
market,  the  belief  has  now  become  common  that  no 
gold  any  longer  exists, — and  even  that  we  can  do 
very  well  without  gold  ! ” I find  this,  among  other 
things,  in  that  universal  cry  of  Liberty  and  Equality ; 
and  find  it  very  natural,  as  matters  then  stood. 

And  yet  surely  it  is  but  the  transition  from  false  to 
true.  Considered  as  the  whole  truth,  it  is  false  alto- 
gether ; — the  product  of  entire  sceptical  blindness, 
as  yet  only  struggling  to  see.  Hero-worship  exists 
forever,  and  everywhere : not  Loyalty  alone ; it 
extends  from  divine  adoration  down  to  the  lowest 
practical  regions  of  life.  ‘ Bending  before  men,’  if 
it  is  not  to  be  a mere  empty  grimace,  better  dis- 
pensed with  than  practised,  is  Hero-worship, — a 
recognition  that  there  does  dwell  in  that  presence 
of  our  brother  something  divine ; that  every  created 
man,  as  Novalis  said,  is  a ‘revelation  in  the  Flesh.’ 
They  were  Poets  too,  that  devised  all  those  graceful 
courtesies  which  make  life  noble ! Courtesy  is  not 
a falsehood  or  grimace  ; it  need  not  be  such.  And 
Loyalty,  religious  Worship  itself,  are  still  possible ; 
^ay  still  inevitable. 

May  we  not  say,  moreover,  while  so  many  of  our 
late  Heroes  have  worked  rather  as  revolutionary 
men,  that  nevertheless  every  Great  Man,  every 
genuine  man,  is  by  the  nature  of  him  a son  of 
Order,  not  of  Disorder  ? It  is  a tragical  position  for 
a true  man  to  work  in  revolutions.  He  seems  an 
anarchist ; and  indeed  a painful  element  of  anarchy 
does  encumber  him  at  every  step, — him  to  whose 
whole  soul  anarchy  is  hostile,  hateful.  His  mission 
is  Order ; every  man’s  is.  He  is  here  to  make  what 
was  disorderly,  chaotic,  into  a thing  ruled,  regular. 

251 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

He  is  the  missionary  of  Order.  Is  not  all  work  of 
man  in  this  world  a making  of  Order  ? The  carpenter 
finds  rough  trees ; shapes  them,  constrains  them  into 
square  fitness,  into  purpose  and  use.  We  are  all 
born  enemies  of  Disorder  : it  is  tragical  for  us  all  to 
be  concerned  in  image-breaking  and  down-pulling  ; 
for  the  Great  Man,  more  a man  than  we,  it  is  doubly 
tragical. 

Thus  too  all  human  things,  maddest  French  Sans- 
culottisms,  do  and  must  work  towards  Order.  I say, 
there  is  not  a man  in  them,  raging  in  the  thickest  of 
the  madness,  but  is  impelled  withal,  at  all  moments, 
towards  Order.  His  very  life  means  that;  Dis- 
order is  dissolution,  death.  No  chaos  but  it  seeks 
a centre  to  revolve  round.  While  man  is  man,  some 
Cromwell  or  Napoleon  is  the  necessary  finish  of 
a Sansculottism. — Curious : in  those  days  when 
Hero-worship  was  the  most  incredible  thing  to 
every  one,  how  it  does  come-out  nevertheless,  and 
assert  itself  practically,  in  a way  which  all  have  to 
credit.  Divine  right,  take  it  on  the  great  scale,  is 
found  to  mean  divine  might  withal ! While  old  false 
F ormulas  are  getting  trampled  everywhere  into  de- 
struction new  genuine  Substances  unexpectedly  un- 
fold themselves  indestructible.  In  rebellious  ages, 
when  Kingship  itself  seems  dead  and  abolished, 
Cromwell,  Napoleon  step-forth  again  as  Kings. 
The  history  of  these  men  is  what  we  have  now  to 
look  at,  as  our  last  phasis  of  Heroism.  The  old  ages 
are  brought  back  to  us ; the  manner  in  which  Kings 
were  made,  and  Kingship  itself  first  took  rise,  is 
again  exhibited  in  the  history  of  these  Two. 

We  have  had  many  civil- wars  in  England  ; wars 
of  Red  and  White  Roses,  wars  of  Simon  de  Mont- 
fort ; wars  enough,  which  are  not  very  memorable. 
252 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

But  that  war  of  the  Puritans  has  a significance 
which  belongs  to  no  one  of  the  others.  Trusting  to 
your  candour,  which  will  suggest  on  the  other  side 
what  I have  not  room  to  say,  I will  call  it  a section 
once  more  of  that  great  universal  war  which  alone 
makes-up  the  true  History  of  the  World, — the  war 
of  Belief  against  Unbelief!  The  struggle  of  men 
intent  on  the  real  essence  of  things,  against  men 
intent  on  the  semblances  and  forms  of  things.  The 
Puritans,  to  many,  seem  mere  savage  Iconoclasts, 
fierce  destroyers  of  Forms;  but  it  were  more  just 
to  call  them  haters  of  untrue  F orms.  I hope  we  know 
how  to  respect  Laud  and  his  King  as  well  as  them. 
Poor  Laud  seems  to  me  to  have  been  weak  and  ill- 
starred,  not  dishonest ; an  unfortunate  Pedant  rather 
than  anything  worse.  His  ‘ Dreams  ’ and  supersti- 
tions, at  which  they  laugh  so,  have  an  affectionate, 
lovable  kind  of  character.  He  is  like  a College- 
Tutor,  whose  whole  world  is  forms.  College-rules ; 
whose  notion  is  that  these  are  the  life  and  safety  of 
the  world.  He  is  placed  suddenly,  with  that  un- 
alterable luckless  notion  of  his,  at  the  head  not  of 
a College  but  of  a Nation,  to  regulate  the  most 
complex  deep-reaching  interests  of  men.  He  thinks 
they  ought  to  go  by  the  old  decent  regulations; 
nay  that  their  salvation  will  lie  in  extending  and 
improving  these.  Like  a weak  man,  he  drives  with 
spasmodic  vehemence  towards  his  purpose  ; cramps 
himself  to  it,  heeding  no  voice  of  prudence,  no  cry 
of  pity  : He  will  have  his  College-rules  obeyed  by 
his  Collegians ; that  first ; and  till  that,  nothing. 
He  is  an  ill-starred  Pedant,  as  I said.  He  would 
have  it  the  world  was  a College  of  that  kind,  and 
the  world  was  not  that.  Alas,  was  not  his  doom 
stern  enough?  Whatever  wrongs  he  did,  were 
they  not  all  frightfully  avenged  on  him  ? 


253 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

It  is  meritorious  to  insist  on  forms ; Religion  and 
all  else  naturally  clothes  itself  in  forms.  Every- 
where the  formed  world  is  the  only  habitable  one. 
The  naked  formlessness  of  Puritanism  is  not  the 
thing  I praise  in  the  Puritans  ; it  is  the  thing  I 
pity, — praising  only  the  spirit  which  had  rendered 
that  inevitable ! All  substances  clothe  themselves 
in  forms:  but  there  are  suitable  true  forms,  and 
then  there  are  untrue  unsuitable.  As  the  briefest 
definition,  one  might  say.  Forms  which  round 
a substance,  if  we  rightly  understand  that,  will 
correspond  to  the  real  nature  and  purport  of  it, 
will  be  true,  good ; forms  which  are  consciously 
j)ut  round  a substance,  bad.  I invite  you  to  reflect 
on  this.  It  distinguishes  true  from  false  in  Ceremo- 
nial F orm,  earnest  solemnity  from  empty  pageant, 
in  all  human  things. 

There  must  be  a veracity,  a natural  spontaneity 
in  forms.  In  the  commonest  meeting  of  men,  a per- 
son making,  what  we  call,  ‘ set  speeches,’  is  not  he 
an  offence  ? In  the  mere  drawing-room,  whatsoever 
courtesies  you  see  to  be  grimaces,  prompted  by  no 
spontaneous  reality  within,  are  a thing  you  wish  to 
get  away  from.  But  suppose  now  it  were  some 
matter  of  vital  concernment,  some  transcendent 
matter  (as  Divine  Worship  is),  about  which  your 
whole  soul,  struck  dumb  with  its  excess  of  feeling, 
knew  not  how  to  form  itself  into  utterance  at  all,  and 
preferred  formless  silence  to  any  utterance  there 
possible, — what  should  we  say  of  a man  coming 
forward  to  represent  or  utter  it  for  you  in  the  way 
of  upholsterer-mummery  ? Such  a man, — let  him 
depart  swiftly,  if  he  love  himself!  You  have  lost 
your  only  son ; are  mute,  struck  down,  without 
even  tears  : an  importunate  man  importunately 
offers  to  celebrate  Funeral  Games  for  him  in  the 
254 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

manner  of  the  Greeks  ! Such  mummery  is  not  only 
not  to  be  accepted, — it  is  hateful,  unendurable. 
It  is  what  the  old  Prophets  called  ‘ Idolatry/  wor- 
shiping of  hollow  shows ; what  all  earnest  men  do 
and  will  reject.  We  can  partly  understand  what 
those  poor  Puritans  meant.  Laud  dedicating  that 
St.  Catherine  Creed’s  Church,  in  the  manner  we 
have  it  described ; with  his  multiplied  ceremonial 
bowings,  gesticulations,  exclamations : surely  it  is 
rather  the  rigorous  formal  Pedant,  intent  on  his 
‘ College-rules,’  than  the  earnest  Prophet,  intent 
on  the  essence  of  the  matter ! 

Puritanism  found  such  forms  insupportable ; 
trampled  on  such  forms ; — we  have  to  excuse  it  for 
saying.  No  form  at  all  rather  than  such ! It  stood 
preaching  in  its  bare  pulpit,  with  nothing  but  the 
Bible  in  its  hand.  Nay,  a man  preaching  from  his 
earnest  soul  into  the  earnest  souls  of  men : is  not  this 
virtually  the  essence  of  all  Churches  whatsoever  ? 
The  nakedest,  savagest  reality,  I say,  is  preferable 
to  any  semblance,  however  dignified.  Besides,  it 
will  clothe  itself  with  due  semblance  by  and  by,  if 
it  be  real.  No  fear  of  that ; actually  no  fear  at  all. 
Given  the  living  man,  there  will  be  found  clothes 
for  him  ; he  will  find  himself  clothes.  But  the  suit- 
of- clothes  pretending  that  it  is  both  clothes  and 
man — ! We  cannot  ‘fight  the  French’  by  three- 
hundred-thousand  red  uniforms ; there  must  be  men 
in  the  inside  of  them ! Semblance,  I assert,  must 
actually  not  divorce  itself  from  Reality.  If  Sem- 
blance do, — why  then  there  must  be  men  found  to 
rebel  against  Semblance,  for  it  has  become  a lie  ! 
These  two  Antagonisms  at  war  here,  in  the  case  of 
Laud  and  the  Puritans,  are  as  old  nearly  as  the 
world.  They  went  to  fierce  battle  over  England  in 
that  age ; and  fought-out  their  confused  controversy 

255 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

to  a certain  length,  with  many  results  for  all 
of  us. 

In  the  age  which  directly  followed  that  of  the 
Puritans,  their  cause  or  themselves  were  little  likely 
to  have  justice  done  them.  Charles  Second  and  his 
Rochesters  were  not  the  kind  of  men  you  would  set  to 
judge  what  the  worth  or  meaning  of  such  men  might 
have  been.  That  there  could  be  any  faith  or  truth 
in  the  life  of  a man,  was  what  these  poor  Roches- 
ters, and  the  age  they  ushered-in,  had  forgotten. 
Puritanism  was  hung  on  gibbets, — like  the  bones  of 
the  leading  Puritans.  Its  work  nevertheless  went 
on  accomplishing  itself.  All  true  work  of  a man, 
hang  the  author  of  it  on  what  gibbet  you  like,  must 
and  will  accomplish  itself.  We  have  our  Habeas- 
Corpus,  our  free  Representation  of  the  People  ; ac- 
knowledgment, wide  as  the  world,  that  all  men  are, 
or  else  must,  shall,  and  will  become,  what  we  call 
free  men ; — men  with  their  life  grounded  on  reality 
and  justice,  not  on  tradition,  which  has  become  un- 
just and  a chimera  ! This  in  part,  and  much  besides 
this,  was  the  work  of  the  Puritans. 

And  indeed,  as  these  things  became  gradually 
manifest,  the  character  of  the  Puritans  began  to 
clear  itself.  Their  memories  were,  one  after  another, 
taken  down  from  the  gibbet ; nay  a certain  portion 
of  them  are  now,  in  these  days,  as  good  as  canonised. 
Eliot,  Hampden,  Pym,  nay  Ludlow,  Hutchinson, 
Vane  himself,  are  admitted  to  be  a kind  of  Heroes ; 
political  Conscript  Fathers,  to  whom  in  no  small 
degree  we  owe  what  makes  us  a free  England : it 
would  not  be  safe  for  anybody  to  designate  these 
men  as  wicked  now.  Few  Puritans  of  note  but  find 
their  apologists  somewhere,  and  have  a certain  re- 
verence paid  them  by  earnest  men.  One  Puritan, 
256 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

I think,  and  almost  he  alone,  our  poor  Cromwell, 
seems  to  hang  yet  on  the  gibbet,  and  find  no  hearty 
apologist  anywhere.  Him  neither  saint  nor  sinner 
will  acquit  of  great  wickedness.  A man  of  ability, 
infinite  talent,  courage,  and  so  forth : but  he  be- 
trayed the  Cause.  Selfish  ambition,  dishonesty, 
duplicity;  a fierce,  coarse,  hypocritical  Tartufe; 
turning  all  that  noble  Struggle  for  constitutional 
Liberty  into  a sorry  farce  played  for  his  own  bene- 
fit: this  and  worse  is  the  character  they  give  of 
Cromwell.  And  then  there  come  contrasts  with 
Washington  and  others  ; above  all,  with  these  noble 
Pyms  and  Hampdens,  whose  noble  work  he  stole  for 
himself,  and  ruined  into  a futility  and  deformity. 

This  view  of  Cromwell  seems  to  me  the  not  un- 
natural product  of  a century  like  the  Eighteenth. 
As  we  said  of  the  Valet,  so  of  the  Sceptic  : He  does 
not  know  a Hero  when  he  sees  him  ! The  Valet 
expected  purple  mantles,  gilt  sceptres,  bodyguards 
and  flourishes  of  trumpets:  the  Sceptic  of  the 
Eighteenth  century  looks  for  regulated  respectable 
Formulas,  ‘Principles,’  or  what  else  he  may  call 
them ; a style  of  speech  and  conduct  which  has  got 
to  seem  ^ respectable,’  which  can  plead  for  itself  in 
a handsome  articulate  manner,  and  gain  the  sufirages 
of  an  enlightened  sceptical  Eighteenth  century ! It 
is,  at  bottom,  the  same  thing  that  both  the  Valet 
and  he  expect : the  garnitures  of  some  acknowledged 
royalty,  which  then  they  will  acknowledge  ! The 
King  coming  to  them  in  the  rugged  M/iformulistic 
state  shall  be  no  King. 

For  my  own  share,  far  be  it  from  me  to  say  or 
insinuate  a word  of  disparagement  against  such 
characters  as  Hampden,  Eliot,  Py m ; whom  I believe 
to  have  been  right  worthy  and  useful  men.  I have 
read  diligently  what  books  and  documents  about 
r 257 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

them  I could  come  at ; — with  the  honestest  wish  to 
admire,  to  love  and  worship  them  like  Heroes ; but 
I am  sorry  to  say,  if  the  real  truth  must  be  told, 
with  very  indifferent  success  ! At  bottom,  I found 
that  it  would  not  do.  They  are  very  noble  men 
these  ; step  along  in  their  stately  way,  with  their 
measured  euphuisms,  philosophies,  parliamentary 
eloquences.  Ship-moneys,  Monarchies  of  Man;  a most 
constitutional,  unblamable,  dignified  set  of  men. 
But  the  heart  remains  cold  before  them ; the  fancy 
alone  endeavours  to  get-up  some  worship  of  them. 
What  man^s  heart  does,  in  reality,  break-forth  into 
any  fire  of  brotherly  love  for  these  men  ? They  are 
become  dreadfully  dull  men!  One  breaks-down 
often  enough  in  the  constitutional  eloquence  of 
the  admirable  Pym,  with  his  ‘seventhly  and  lastly.^ 
You  find  that  it  may  be  the  admirablest  thing  in  the 
world,  but  that  it  is  heavy, — heavy  as  lead,  barren 
as  brick  clay ; that,  in  a word,  for  you  there  is  little 
or  nothing  now  surviving  there ! One  leaves  all 
these  Nobilities  standing  in  their  niches  of  honour : 
the  rugged  outcast  Cromwell,  he  is  the  man  of  them 
all  in  whom  one  still  finds  human  stuff.  The  great 
savage  Baresark : he  could  write  no  euphuistic  Mon- 
archy of  Man  ; did  not  speak,  did  not  work  with  glib 
regularity ; had  no  straight  story  to  tell  for  himself 
anywhere.  But  he  stood  bare,  not  cased  in  euphu- 
istic coat-of-mail ; he  grappled  like  a giant,  face  to 
face,  heart  to  heart,  with  the  naked  truth  of  things  ! 
That,  after  all,  is  the  sort  of  man  for  one.  I plead 
guilty  to  valuing  such  a man  beyond  all  other  sorts 
of  men.  Smooth-shaven  Respectabilities  not  a few 
one  finds,  that  are  not  good  for  much.  Small  thanks 
to  a man  for  keeping  his  hands  clean,  who  would 
not  touch  the  work  but  with  gloves  on ! 

Neither,  on  the  whole,  does  this  constitutional 

258 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

tolerance  of  the  Eighteenth  century  for  the  other 
happier  Puritans  seem  to  be  a very  great  matter. 
One  might  say,  it  is  but  a piece  of  Formulism  and 
Scepticism,  like  the  rest.  They  tell  us.  It  was  a 
sorrowful  thing  to  consider  that  the  foundation  of 
our  English  Liberties  should  have  been  laid  by 
‘ Superstition.^  These  Puritans  came  forward  with 
Calvinistic  incredible  Creeds,  Anti-Laudisms, West- 
minster Confessions ; demanding,  chiefly  of  all,  that 
they  should  have  liberty  to  worship  in  their  own 
way.  Liberty  to  tax  themselves : that  was  the  thing 
they  should  have  demanded  ! It  was  Superstition, 
Fanaticism,  disgraceful  ignorance  of  Constitutional 
Philosophy  to  insist  on  the  other  thing  ! — Liberty 
to  tax  oneself?  Not  to  pay-out  money  from  your 
pocket  except  on  reason  shown  ? No  century,  I 
think,  but  a rather  barren  one  would  have  fixed  on 
that  as  the  first  right  of  man  ! I should  say,  on  the 
contrary,  A just  man  will  generally  have  better 
cause  than  money  in  what  shape  soever,  before 
deciding  to  revolt  against  his  Government.  Ours  is 
a most  confused  world  ; in  which  a good  man  will 
be  thankful  to  see  any  kind  of  Government  main- 
tain itself  in  a not  insupportable  manner  : and  here 
in  England,  to  this  hour,  if  he  is  not  ready  to  pay 
a great  many  taxes  which  he  can  see  very  small 
reason  in,  it  will  not  go  well  with  him,  I think  ! He 
must  try  some  other  climate  than  this.  Taxgatherer? 
Money?  He  will  say:  ‘‘  Take  my  money,  since  you 
can,  and  it  is  so  desirable  to  you  ; take  it, — and 
take  yourself  away  with  it ; and  leave  me  alone  to 
my  work  here.  / am  still  here  ; can  still  work,  after 
all  the  money  you  have  taken  from  me ! ” But  if 
they  come  to  him,  and  say,  “ Acknowledge  a Lie  ; 
pretend  to  say  you  are  worshiping  God,  when  you 
are  not  doing  it : believe  not  the  thing  that  you  find 

259 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

true,  but  the  thing  that  I find,  or  pretend  to  find 
true!”  He  will  answer:  “ No ; by  God’s  help,  no ! 
Y ou  may  take  my  purse ; but  I cannot  have  my  moral 
Self  annihilated.  The  purse  is  any  Highwayman’s 
who  might  meet  me  with  a loaded  pistol : but  the 
Self  is  mine  and  God  my  Maker’s  ; it  is  not  yours ; 
and  I will  resist  you  to  the  death,  and  revolt  against 
you,  and  on  the  whole  front  all  manner  of  extremities, 
accusations  and  confusions,  in  defence  of  that !” — 

Really,  it  seems  to  me  the  one  reason  which  could 
justify  revolting,  this  of  the  Puritans.  It  has  been 
the  soul  of  all  just  revolts  among  men.  Not  Hunger 
alone  produced  even  the  French  Revolution ; no, 
but  the  feeling  of  the  insupportable  all-pervading 
Falsehood  which  had  now  embodied  itself  in  Hunger, 
in  universal  material  Scarcity  and  Nonentity,  and 
thereby  become  indisputably  false  in  the  eyes  of 
all ! We  will  leave  the  Eighteenth  century  with  its 
liberty  to  tax  itself.’  We  will  not  astonish  our- 
selves that  the  meaning  of  such  men  as  the  Puritans 
remained  dim  to  it.  To  men  who  believe  in  no 
reality  at  all,  how  shall  a real  human  soul,  the 
intensest  of  all  realities,  as  it  were  the  Voice  of  this 
world’s  Maker  still  speaking  to  us, — be  intelligible  ? 
What  it  cannot  reduce  into  constitutional  doctrines 
relative  to  ‘taxing,’  or  other  the  like  material  in- 
terest, gross,  palpable  to  the  sense,  such  a century 
will  needs  reject  as  an  amorphous  heap  of  rubbish. 
Hampdens,  Pyms  and  Ship-money  will  be  the  theme 
of  much  constitutional  eloquence,  striving  to  be 
fervid  ; — which  will  glitter,  if  not  as  fire  does,  then 
as  ice  does : and  the  irreducible  Cromwell  will 
remain  a chaotic  mass  of  ‘ madness,’  ‘ hypocrisy,’ 
and  much  else. 

From  of  old,  I will  confess,  this  theory  of  Crom- 

260 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

weirs  falsity  has  been  incredible  to  me.  Nay  I 
cannot  believe  the  like,  of  any  Great  Man  what- 
ever. Multitudes  of  Great  Men  figure  in  History  as 
false  selfish  men ; but  if  we  will  consider  it,  they 
are  but  figures  for  us,  unintelligible  shadows ; we  do 
not  see  into  them  as  men  that  could  have  existed 
at  all.  A superficial  unbelieving  generation  only, 
with  no  eye  but  for  the  surfaces  and  semblances 
of  things,  could  form  such  notions  of  Great  Men. 
Can  a great  soul  be  possible  without  a conscience  in 
it,  the  essence  of  all  real  souls,  great  or  small  ? — 
No,  we  cannot  figure  Cromwell  as  a Falsity  and 
Fatuity ; the  longer  I study  him  and  his  career,  I 
believe  this  the  less.  Why  should  we  ? There  is  no 
evidence  of  it.  Is  it  not  strange  that,  after  all  the 
mountains  of  calumny  this  man  has  been  subject  to, 
after  being  represented  as  the  very  prince  of  liars, 
who  never,  or  hardly  ever,  spoke  truth,  but  always 
some  cunning  counterfeit  of  truth,  there  should 
not  yet  have  been  one  falsehood  brought  clearly 
home  to  him  ? A prince  of  liars,  and  no  lie  spoken 
by  him.  Not  one  that  I could  yet  get  sight  of.  It 
is  like  Pococke  asking  Grotius,  Where  is  your 
proof  of  Mahomet’s  Pigeon?  No  proof! — Let  us 
leave  all  these  calumnious  chimeras,  as  chimeras 
ought  to  be  left.  They  are  not  portraits  of  the 
man ; they  are  distracted  phantasms  of  him,  the 
joint  product  of  hatred  and  darkness. 

Looking  at  the  man’s  life  with  our  own  eyes,  it 
seems  to  me,  a very  different  hypothesis  suggests 
itself.  What  little  we  know  of  his  earlier  obscure 
years,  distorted  as  it  has  come  down  to  us,  does  it  not 
all  betoken  an  earnest,  affectionate,  sincere  kind  of 
man?  His  nervous  melancholic  temperament  in- 
dicates rather  a seriousness  too  deep  for  him  Of 
those  stories  of  ‘ Spectres of  the  white  Spectre  in 

261 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

broad  daylight,  predicting  that  he  should  be  King 
of  England,  we  are  not  bound  to  believe  much ; — 
probably  no  more  than  of  the  other  black  Spectre, 
or  Devil  in  person,  to  whom  the  Officer  saw  him 
sell  himself  before  Worcester  Fight ! But  the 
mournful,  over-sensitive,  hypochondriac  humour 
of  Oliver,  in  his  young  years,  is  otherwise  indis- 
putably known.  The  Huntingdon  Physician  told 
Sir  Philip  Warwick  himself.  He  had  often  been 
sent-for  at  midnight ; Mr.  Cromwell  was  full  of 
hypochondria,  thought  himself  near  dying,  and 
‘‘had  fancies  about  the  Town-cross.”  These  things 
are  significant.  Such  an  excitable  deep-feeling 
nature,  in  that  rugged  stubborn  strength  of  his,  is 
not  the  symptom  of  falsehood ; it  is  the  symptom 
and  promise  of  quite  other  than  falsehood  ! 

The  young  Oliver  is  sent  to  study  Law ; falls,  or 
is  said  to  have  fallen,  for  a little  period,  into  some 
of  the  dissipations  of  youth;  but  if  so,  speedily 
repents,  abandons  all  this : not  much  above  twenty, 
he  is  married,  settled  as  an  altogether  grave  and 
quiet  man.  ‘ He  pays-back  what  money  he  has  won 
at  gambling,’  says  the  story ; — he  does  not  think 
any  gain  of  that  kind  could  be  really  his.  It  is  very 
interesting,  very  natural,  this  ‘ conversion,’  as  they 
well  name  it ; this  awakening  of  a great  true  soul 
from  the  worldly  slough,  to  see  into  the  awful  truth 
of  things ; — to  see  that  Time  and  its  shows  all  rested 
on  Eternity,  and  this  poor  Earth  of  ours  was  the 
threshold  either  of  Heaven  or  of  Hell ! Oliver’s 
life  at  St.  Ives  and  Ely,  as  a sober  industrious 
Farmer,  is  it  not  altogether  as  that  of  a true  and 
devout  man?  He  has  renounced  the  world  and 
its  ways;  its  prizes  are  not  the  thing  that  can 
enrich  him.  He  tills  the  earth  ; he  reads  his  Bible ; 
daily  assembles  his  servants  round  him  to  worship 
262 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

God.  He  comforts  persecuted  ministers,  is  fond  of 
preachers ; nay,  can  himself  preach, — exhorts  his 
neighbours  to  be  wise,  to  redeem  the  time.  In  all 
this,  what  "hypocrisy,’  "ambition,’  "cant,’  or  other 
falsity  ? The  man’s  hopes,  I do  believe,  were  fixed 
on  the  other  Higher  World ; his  aim  to  get  well 
thither 9 by  walking  well  through  his  humble  course 
in  this  world.  He  courts  no  notice : what  could 
notice  here  do  tor  him  ? Ever  in  his  great  Task- 
master’s eye.’ 

It  is  striking,  too,  how  he  comes-out  once  into 
public  view ; he,  since  no  other  is  willing  to  come  : 
in  resistance  to  a public  grievance.  I mean,  in  that 
matter  of  the  Bedford  Fens.  No  one  else  will  go  to 
law  with  Authority ; therefore  he  will.  That  matter 
once  settled,  he  returns  back  into  obscurity,  to  his 
Bible  and  his  Plough.  " Gain  influence  ? ’ His  in- 
fluence is  the  most  legitimate;  derived  from  personal 
knowledge  of  him,  as  a just,  religious,  reasonable 
and  determined  man.  In  this  way  he  has  lived  till 
past  forty ; old  age  is  now  in  view  of  him,  and  the 
earnest  portal  of  Death  and  Eternity ; it  was  at  this 
point  that  he  suddenly  became  " ambitious  ! ’ I do 
not  interpret  his  Parliamentary  mission  in  that  way ! 

His  successes  in  Parliament,  his  successes  through 
the  war,  are  honest  successes  of  a brave  man ; who 
has  more  resolution  in  the  heart  of  him,  more  light 
in  the  head  of  him  than  other  men.  His  prayers  to 
God  ; his  spoken  thanks  to  the  God  of  Victory,  who 
had  preserved  him  safe,  and  carried  him  forward  so 
far,  through  the  furious  clash  of  a world  all  set  in 
conflict,  through  desperate-looking  envelopments 
at  Dunbar;  through  the  death-hail  of  so  many 
battles;  mercy  after  mercy;  to  the  "crowning 
mercy’  of  Worcester  Fight:  all  this  is  good  and 
genuine  for  a deep-hearted  Galvinistic  Cromwell. 

263 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Only  to  vain  unbelieving  Cavaliers,  worshiping  not 
God  but  their  own  ‘ love-locks,’  frivolities  and  for- 
malities, living  quite  apart  from  contemplations  of 
God,  living  without  God  in  the  world,  need  it  seem 
hypocritical. 

Nor  will  his  participation  in  the  King’s  death 
involve  him  in  condemnation  with  us.  It  is  a stern 
business  killing  of  a King ! But  if  you  once  go  to 
war  with  him,  it  lies  there;  this  and  all  else  lies 
there.  Once  at  war,  you  have  made  wager  of  battle 
with  him : it  is  he  to  die,  or  else  you.  Reconcilia- 
tion is  problematic  ; may  be  possible,  or,  far  more 
likely,  is  impossible.  It  is  now  pretty  generally 
admitted  that  the  Parliament,  having  vanquished 
Charles  First,  had  no  way  of  making  any  tenable 
arrangement  with  him.  The  large  Presbyterian 
party,  apprehensive  now  of  the  Independents,  were 
most  anxious  to  do  so  ; anxious  indeed  as  for  their 
own  existence  ; but  it  could  not  be.  The  unhappy 
Charles,  in  those  final  Hampton-Court  negotia- 
tions, shows  himself  as  a man  fatally  incapable  of 
being  dealt  with.  A man  who,  once  for  all,  could 
not  and  would  not  undeistand: — whose  thought  did 
not  in  any  measure  represent  to  him  the  real  fact 
of  the  matter;  nay  worse,  whose  word  did  not 
at  all  represent  his  thought.  We  may  say  this  of 
him  without  cruelty,  with  deep  pity  rather : but  it 
is  true  and  undeniable.  Forsaken  there  of  all  but 
the  name  of  Kingship,  he  still,  finding  himself  treated 
with  outward  respect  as  a King,  fancied  that  he 
might  play-oflF  party  against  party,  and  smuggle 
himself  into  his  old  power  by  deceiving  both.  Alas, 
they  both  discovered  that  he  was  deceiving  them. 
A man  whose  word  will  not  inform  you  at  all  what 
he  means  or  will  do,  is  not  a man  you  can  bargain 
with.  You  must  get  out  of  that  man’s  way,  or  put 
264 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

him  out  of  yours!  The  Presbyterians,  in  their 
despair,  were  still  for  believing  Charles,  though 
found  false,  unbelievable  again  and  again.  Not  so 
Cromwell:  ‘‘For  all  our  fighting,”  says  he,  “we 
are  to  have  a little  bit  of  paper?”  No  ! — 

In  fact,  everywhere  we  have  to  note  the  decisive 
practical  eye  of  this  man ; how  he  drives  towards 
the  practical  and  practicable ; has  a genuine  insight 
Into  what  is  fact.  Such  an  intellect,  I maintain, 
does  not  belong  to  a false  man : the  false  man  sees 
false  shows,  plausibilities,  expediencies:  the  true 
man  is  needed  to  discern  even  practical  truth. 
Cromwell’s  advice  about  the  Parliament’s  Army, 
early  in  the  contest.  How  they  were  to  dismiss 
their  city-tapsters,  flimsy  riotous  persons,  and 
choose  substantial  yeomen,  whose  heart  was  in  the 
work,  to  be  soldiers  for  them : this  is  advice  by  a 
man  who  saw.  Fact  answers,  if  you  see  into  Fact ! 
Cromwell’s  Ironsides  were  the  embodiment  of  this 
insight  of  his ; men  fearing  God  ; and  without  any 
other  fear.  No  more  conclusively  genuine  set  of 
fighters  ever  trod  the  soil  of  England,  or  of  any 
other  land. 

Neither  will  we  blame  greatly  that  word  of 
Cromwell’s  to  them ; which  was  so  blamed : “ If 
the  King  should  meet  me  in  battle,  I would  kill 
the  King.”  Why  not  ? These  words  were  spoken 
to  men  who  stood  as  before  a Higher  than  Kings. 
They  had  set  more  than  their  own  lives  on  the  cast. 
The  Parliament  may  call  it,  in  official  language,  a 
fighting  ‘/or  the  King ; ’ but  we,  for  our  share,  cannot 
understand  that.  To  us  it  is  no  dilettante  work,  no 
sleek  officiality ; it  is  sheer  rough  death  and  earnest. 
They  have  brought  it  to  the  calling-forth  of  War; 
horrid  internecine  fight,  man  grappling  with  man 
in  fire-eyed  rage, — the  infernal  element  in  man  called 

265 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

forth,  to  try  it  by  that ! Do  that  therefore ; since 
that  is  the  thing  to  be  done. — The  successes  of 
Cromwell  seem  to  me  a very  natural  thing ! Since 
he  was  not  shot  in  battle,  they  were  an  inevitable 
thing.  That  such  a man,  with  the  eye  to  see,  with 
the  heart  to  dare,  should  advance,  from  post  to 
post,  from  victory  to  victory,  till  the  Huntingdon 
Farmer  became,  by  whatever  name  you  might  call 
him,  the  acknowledged  Strongest  Man  in  England, 
virtually  the  King  of  England,  requires  no  magic  to 
explain  it ! — 

Truly  it  is  a sad  thing  for  a people,  as  for  a man, 
to  fall  into  Scepticism,  into  dilettantism,  insincerity; 
not  to  know  a Sincerity  when  they  see  it.  For  this 
world,  and  for  all  worlds,  what  curse  is  so  fatal? 
The  heart  lying  dead,  the  eye  cannot  see.  What 
intellect  remains  is  merely  the  vulpine  intellect.  That 
a true  King  be  sent  them  is  of  small  use  ; they  do  not 
know  him  when  sent.  They  say  scornfully.  Is  this 
your  King  ? The  Hero  wastes  his  heroic  faculty  in 
bootless  contradiction  from  the  unworthy ; and  can 
accomplish  little.  For  himself  he  does  accomplish 
a heroic  life,  which  is  much,  which  is  all ; but  for  the 
world  he  accomplishes  comparatively  nothing.  The 
wild  rude  Sincerity,  direct  from  Nature,  is  not  glib 
in  answering  from  the  witness-box : in  your  small- 
debt  pie-powder  court,  he  is  scouted  as  a counterfeit. 
The  vulpine  intellect  ‘detects’  him.  For  being  a 
man  worth  any  thousand  men,  the  response  your 
Knox,  your  Cromwell  gets,  is  an  argument  for  two 
centuries  whether  he  was  a man  at  all.  God’s 
greatest  gift  to  this  Earth  is  sneeringly  flung  away. 
The  miraculous  talisman  is  a paltry  plated  coin, 
not  fit  to  pass  in  the  shops  as  a common  guinea. 

Lamentable  this ! I say,  this  must  be  remedied. 

266 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

Till  this  be  remedied  In  some  measure,  there  Is 
nothing  remedied.  ‘ Detect  quacks  ? ^ Yes  do,  for 
Heaven’s  sake ; but  know  withal  the  men  that  are 
to  be  trusted ! Till  we  know  that,  what  is  all  our 
knowledge ; how  shall  we  even  so  much  as  ‘detect?’ 
F or  the  vulpine  sharpness,  which  considers  itself  to 
be  knowledge,  and  ‘ detects  ’ in  that  fashion,  is  far 
mistaken.  Dupes  Indeed  are  many : but,  of  all  dupes^ 
there  is  none  so  fatally  situated  as  he  who  lives  in 
undue  terror  of  being  duped.  The  world  does 
exist;  the  world  has  truth  in  it,  or  it  would  not 
exist!  First  recognise  what  is  true,  we  shall  then 
discern  what  is  false ; and  properly  never  till  then. 

‘Know  the  men  that  are  to  be  trusted:’  alas, 
this  is  yet,  in  these  days,  very  far  from  us.  The 
sincere  alone  can  recognise  sincerity.  Not  a Hero 
only  is  needed,  but  a world  fit  for  him ; a world  not 
of  Valets; — the  Hero  comes  almost  in  vain  to  it 
otherwise  ! Yes,  it  is  far  from  us : but  it  must  come ; 
thank  God,  it  is  visibly  coming.  Till  it  do  come, 
what  have  we?  Ballot-boxes,  suffrages,  French 
Revolutions: — if  we  are  as  Valets,  and  do  not 
know  the  Hero  when  we  see  him,  what  good  are 
all  these?  A heroic  Cromwell  comes;  and  for  a 
hundred-and-fifty  years  he  cannot  have  a vote  from 
us.  Why,  the  insincere,  unbelieving  world  is  the 
natural  property  of  the  Quack,  and  of  the  Father  of 
quacks  and  quackeries ! Misery,  confusion,  un- 
veraclty  are  alone  possible  there.  By  ballot-boxes 
we  alter  the  figure  of  our  Quack ; but  the  substance 
of  him  continues.  The  Valet-World  has  to  be 
governed  by  the  Sham-Hero,  by  the  King  merely 
dressed  in  King-gear.  It  is  his ; he  is  its  ! In  brief, 
one  of  two  things : We  shall  either  learn  to  know  a 
Hero,  a true  Governor  and  Captain,  somewhat 
better,  when  we  see  him ; or  else  go-on  to  be  for- 

267 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

ever  governed  by  the  Unheroic  ; — had  we  ballot- 
boxes  clattering  at  every  street-corner,  there  were 
no  remedy  in  these. 

Poor  Cromwell, — great  Cromwell ! The  inarti- 
culate Prophet ; Prophet  who  could  not  speak. 
Rude,  confused,  struggling  to  utter  himself,  with 
his  savage  depth,  with  his  wild  sincerity ; and  he 
looked  so  strange,  among  the  elegant  Euphuisms, 
dainty  little  Falklands,  didactic  Chillingworths, 
diplomatic  Clarendons ! Consider  him.  An  outer 
hull  of  chaotic  confusion,  visions  of  the  Devil, 
nervous  dreams,  almost  semi-madness;  and  yet 
such  a clear  determinate  man’s-energy  working  in 
the  heart  of  that.  A kind  of  chaotic  man.  The  ray 
as  of  pure  starlight  and  fire,  working  in  such  an 
element  of  boundless  hypochondria,  unformed  black 
of  darkness ! And  yet  withal  this  hypochondria, 
what  was  it  but  the  very  greatness  of  the  man? 
The  depth  and  tenderness  of  his  wild  affections ; 
the  quantity  of  sympathy  he  had  with  things, — the 
quantity  of  insight  he  would  yet  get  into  the  heart 
of  things,  the  mastery  he  would  yet  get  over  things : 
this  was  his  hypochondria.  The  man’s  misery,  as 
man’s  misery  always  does,  came  of  his  greatness. 
Samuel  Johnson  too  is  that  kind  of  man.  Sorrow- 
stricken,  half- distracted ; the  wide  element  of 
mournful  black  enveloping  him, — wide  as  the 
world.  It  is  the  character  of  a prophetic  man ; a 
man  with  his  whole  soul  seeing  and  struggling  to 
see. 

On  this  ground,  too,  I explain  to  myself  Crom- 
well’s reputed  confusion  of  speech.  To  himself  the 
internal  meaning  was  sun-clear ; but  the  material 
with  which  he  was  to  clothe  it  in  utterance  was  not 
there.  He  had  lived  silent ; a great  unnamed  sea  of 
Thought  round  him  all  his  days ; and  in  his  way  of 
268 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

life  little  call  to  attempt  naming  or  uttering  that. 
With  his  sharp  power  of  vision,  resolute  power  of 
action,  I doubt  not  he  could  have  learned  to  write 
Books  withal,  and  speak  fluently  enough  ; — he  did 
harder  things  than  writing  of  Books.  This  kind  of 
man  is  precisely  he  who  is  fit  for  doing  manfully 
all  things  you  will  set  him  on  doing.  Intellect  is  not 
speaking  and  logicising ; it  is  seeing  and  ascertain- 
ing. Virtue,  Vir-tus,  manhood,  herdhood,  is  not  fair- 
spoken  immaculate  regularity ; it  is  first  of  all,  what 
the  Germans  well  name  it  Tugend  {Taugend,  dow-\ng 
or  Doughtiness),  Courage  and  the  Faculty  to  do. 
This  basis  of  the  matter  Cromwell  had  in  him. 

One  understands  moreover  how,  though  he  could 
not  speak  in  Parliament,  he  might  preach,  rhapsodic 
preaching;  above  all,  how  he  might  be  great  in 
extempore  prayer.  These  are  the  free  outpouring 
utterances  of  what  is  in  the  heart : method  is  not 
required  in  them ; warmth,  depth,  sincerity  are  all 
that  is  required.  Cromwell’s  habit  of  prayer  is  a 
notable  feature  of  him.  All  his  great  enterprises 
were  commenced  with  prayer.  In  dark  inextricable- 
looking  difficulties,  his  Officers  and  he  used  to  as- 
semble, and  pray  alternately,  for  hours,  for  days, 
till  some  definite  resolution  rose  among  them,  some 
‘ door  of  hope,’  as  they  would  name  it,  disclosed 
Itself.  Consider  that.  In  tears,  in  fervent  prayers, 
and  cries  to  the  great  God,  to  have  pity  on  them,  to 
make  His  light  shine  before  them.  They,  armed 
Soldiers  of  Christ,  as  they  felt  themselves  to  be ; a 
little  band  of  Christian  Brothers,  who  had  drawn 
the  sword  against  a great  black  devouring  world  not 
Christian,  but  Mammonish,  Devilish, — they  cried 
to  God  in  their  straits,  in  their  extreme  need,  not  to 
forsake  the  Cause  that  was  His.  The  light  which 
now  rose  upon  them, — how  could  a human  soul,  by 

269 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

any  means  at  all,  get  better  light  ? Was  not  the  pur- 
pose so  formed  like  to  be  precisely  the  best,  wisest, 
the  one  to  be  followed  without  hesitation  any  more  ? 
To  them  it  was  as  the  shining  of  Heaven’s  own  Splen- 
dour in  the  waste-howling  darkness ; the  Pillar  of 
Fire  by  night,  that  was  to  guide  them  on  their  deso- 
late perilous  way.  Was  it  not  such  ? Can  a man’s 
soul,  to  this  hour,  get  guidance  by  any  other  method 
than  intrinsically  by  that  same, — devout  prostration 
of  the  earnest  struggling  soul  before  the  Highest,  the 
Giver  of  all  Light ; be  such  prayer  a spoken,  articu- 
late, or  be  it  a voiceless,  inarticulate  one  ? There  is 
no  other  method.  ‘ Hypocrisy  ? ’ One  begins  to  be 
weary  of  all  that.  They  who  call  it  so,  have  no  right 
to  speak  on  such  matters.  They  never  formed  a 
purpose,  what  one  can  call  a purpose.  They  went 
about  balancing  expediencies,  plausibilities ; gather- 
ing votes,  advices ; they  never  were  alone  with  the 
truth  of  a thing  at  all. — Cromwell’s  prayers  were 
likely  to  be  ‘ eloquent,’  and  much  more  than  that. 
His  was  the  heart  of  a man  who  could  pray. 

But  indeed  his  actual  Speeches,  I apprehend, 
were  not  nearly  so  ineloquent,  incondite,  as  they 
look.  We  find  he  was,  what  all  speakers  aim  to  be, 
an  impressive  speaker,  even  in  Parliament;  one 
who,  from  the  first,  had  weight.  With  that  rude 
passionate  voice  of  his,  he  was  always  understood 
to  mean  something,  and  men  wished  to  know  what. 
He  disregarded  eloquence,  nay  despised  and  dis- 
liked it ; spoke  always  without  premeditation  of  the 
words  he  was  to  use.  The  Reporters,  too,  in  those 
days  seem  to  have  been  singularly  candid ; and  to 
have  given  the  Printer  precisely  what  they  found 
on  their  own  note-paper.  And  withal,  what  a strange 
proof  is  it  of  Cromwell’s  being  the  premeditative 
ever-calculating  hypocrite,  acting  a play  before  the 
270 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

world,  That  to  the  last  he  took  no  more  charge  of 
his  Speeches  ! How  came  he  not  to  study  his  words 
a little,  before  flinging  them  out  to  the  public  ? If 
the  words  were  true  words,  they  could  be  left  to 
shift  for  themselves. 

But  with  regard  to  Cromwell’s  ‘lying,’  we  will 
make  one  remark.  This,  I suppose,  or  something 
like  this,  to  have  been  the  nature  of  it.  All  parties 
found  themselves  deceived  in  him ; each  party  un- 
derstood him  to  be  meaning  this,  heard  him  even  say 
so,  and  behold  he  turns- out  to  have  been  meaning 
that ! He  was,  cry  they,  the  chief  of  liars.  But  now, 
intrinsically,  is  not  all  this  the  inevitable  fortune, 
not  of  a false  man  in  such  times,  but  simply  of  a 
superior  man  ? Such  a man  must  have  reticences  in 
him.  If  he  walk  wearing  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve 
for  daws  to  peck  at,  his  journey  will  not  extend  far ! 
There  is  no  use  for  any  man’s  taking-up  his  abode 
in  a house  built  of  glass.  A man  always  is  to  be  him- 
self the  judge  how  much  of  his  mind  he  will  show 
to  other  men ; even  to  those  he  would  have  work 
along  with  him.  There  are  impertinent  inquiries 
made : your  rule  is,  to  leave  the  inquirer  wninformed 
on  that  matter ; not,  if  you  can  help  it,  misinformed, 
but  precisely  as  dark  as  he  was ! This,  could  one 
hit  the  right  phrase  of  response,  is  what  the  wise 
and  faithful  man  would  aim  to  answer  in  such  a 
case. 

Cromwell,  no  doubt  of  it,  spoke  often  in  the  dia- 
lect of  small  subaltern  parties ; uttered  to  them  a 
part  of  his  mind.  Each  little  party  thought  him  all 
its  own.  Hence  their  rage,  one  and  all,  to  find  him 
not  of  their  party,  but  of  his  own  party  ! Was  it  his 
blame  ? At  all  seasons  of  his  history,  he  must  have 
felt,  among  such  people,  how,  if  he  explained  to 
them  the  deeper  insight  he  had,  they  must  either 

271 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

have  shuddered  aghast  at  it,  or  believing  it,  their 
own  little  compact  hypothesis  must  have  gone 
wholly  to  wreck.  They  could  not  have  worked  in 
his  province  any  more ; nay  perhaps  they  could  not 
now  have  worked  in  their  own  province.  It  is  the 
inevitable  position  of  a great  man  among  small  men. 
Small  men,  most  active,  useful,  are  to  be  seen  every- 
where, whose  whole  activity  depends  on  some  con- 
viction which  to  you  is  palpably  a limited  one; 
imperfect,  what  we  call  an  error.  But  would  it  be 
a kindness  always,  is  it  a duty  always  or  often,  to 
disturb  them  in  that?  Many  a man,  doing  loud 
work  in  the  world,  stands  only  on  some  thin  tradi- 
tionality,  conventionality ; to  him  indubitable,  to 
you  incredible : break  that  beneath  him,  he  sinks 
to  endless  depths ! “ I might  have  my  hand  full  of 
truth,”  said  Fontenelle,  “and  open  only  my  little 
finger.” 

And  if  this  be  the  fact  even  in  matters  of  doctrine, 
how  much  more  in  all  departments  of  practice ! He 
that  cannot  withal  keep  his  mind  to  himself  cannot 
practise  any  considerable  thing  whatever.  And  we 
call  it  ‘ dissimulation,’  all  this  ? What  would  you 
think  of  calling  the  general  of  an  army  a dissembler 
because  he  did  not  tell  every  corporal  and  private 
soldier,  who  pleased  to  put  the  question,  what  his 
thoughts  were  about  everything  ? — Cromwell,  I 
should  rather  say,  managed  all  this  in  a manner  we 
must  admire  for  its  perfection.  An  endless  vortex 
of  such  questioning  ‘ corporals  ’ rolled  confusedly 
round  him  through  his  whole  course  ; whom  he  did 
answer.  It  must  have  been  as  a great  true-seeing 
man  that  he  managed  this  too.  Not  one  proved 
falsehood,  as  I said ; not  one  ! Of  what  man  that 
ever  wound  himself  through  such  a coil  of  things 
will  you  say  so  much  ? — 

272 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

But  In  fact  there  are  two  errors,  widely  prevalent, 
which  pervert  to  the  very  basis  our  judgments 
formed  about  such  men  as  Cromwell ; about  their 
‘ ambition,*  ‘ falsity,’  and  such  like.  The  first  is  what 
I might  call  substituting  the  goal  of  their  career  for 
the  course  and  starting-point  of  it.  The  vulgar  His- 
torian of  a Cromwell  fancies  that  he  had  determined 
on  being  Protector  of  England,  at  the  time  when 
he  was  ploughing  the  marsh  lands  of  Cambridge- 
shire. His  career  lay  all  mapped- out : a program 
of  the  whole  drama ; which  he  then  step  by  step 
dramatically  unfolded,  with  all  manner  of  cunning, 
deceptive  dramaturgy,  as  he  went  on, — the  hollow, 
scheming  ^r7roKpiT^s,or  Play-actor,  that  he  was ! This 
is  a radical  perversion;  all  but  universal  in  such 
cases.  And  think  for  an  Instant  how  different  the 
fact  is ! How  much  does  one  of  us  foresee  of  his 
own  life  ? Short  way  ahead  of  us  it  is  all  dim  ; an 
unwound  skein  of  possibilities,  of  apprehensions, 
attemptabilities,  vague-looming  hopes.  This  Crom- 
well had  not  his  life  lying  all  in  that  fashion  of 
Program,  which  he  needed  then,  with  that  un- 
fathomable cunning  of  his,  only  to  enact  dramati- 
cally, scene  after  scene!  Not  so.  We  see  it  so ; but 
to  him  it  was  in  no  measure  so.  What  absurdities 
would  fall-away  of  themselves,  were  this  one  un- 
deniable fact  kept  honestly  in  view  by  History! 
Historians  indeed  will  tell  you  that  they  do  keep  it 
in  view ; — but  look  whether  such  is  practically  the 
fact ! Vulgar  History,  as  in  this  Cromwell’s  case, 
omits  it  altogether ; even  the  best  kinds  of  History 
only  remember  it  now  and  then.  To  remember  it 
duly,  with  rigorous  perfection,  as  in  the  fact  it  stood, 
requires  indeed  a rare  faculty ; rare,  nay  impossible. 
A very  Shakspeare  for  faculty ; or  more  than  Shak- 
speare ; who  could  enact  a brother  man’s  biography, 
s 273 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

see  with  the  brother  man’s  eyes  at  all  points  of  his 
course  what  things  he  saw ; in  short,  know  his  course 
and  him,  as  few  ‘ Historians  ’ are  like  to  do.  Half 
or  more  of  all  the  thick-plied  perversions  which  dis- 
tort our  image  of  Cromwell,  will  disappear,  if  we 
honestly  so  much  as  try  to  represent  them  so ; in 
sequence,  as  they  were;  not  in  the  lump,  as  they 
are  thrown-down  before  us. 

But  a second  error,  which  I think  the  generality 
commit,  refers  to  this  same  ‘ambition’  itself.  We 
exaggerate  the  ambition  of  Great  Men ; we  mistake 
what  the  nature  of  it  is.  Great  Men  are  not  ambi- 
tious in  that  sense  ; he  is  a small  poor  man  that  is 
ambitious  so.  Examine  the  man  who  lives  in  misery 
because  he  does  not  shine  above  other  men ; who 
goes  about  producing  himself,  pruriently  anxious 
about  his  gifts  and  claims ; struggling  to  force  every- 
body, as  It  were  begging  everybody  for  God’s  sake, 
to  acknowledge  him  a great  man,  and  set  him  over 
the  heads  of  men ! Such  a creature  is  among  the 
wretchedest  sights  seen  under  this  sun.  A great 
man  ? A poor  morbid  prurient  empty  man ; fitter 
for  the  ward  of  a hospital,  than  for  a throne  among 
men.  I advise  you  to  keep-out  of  his  way.  He 
cannot  walk  on  quiet  paths ; unless  you  will  look  at 
him,  wonder  at  him,  write  paragraphs  about  him,  he 
cannot  live.  It  is  the  emptiness  of  the  man,  not  his 
greatness.  Because  there  Is  nothing  in  himself,  he 
hungers  and  thirsts  that  you  would  find  something 
in  him.  In  good  truth,  I believe  no  great  man,  not 
so  much  as  a genuine  man  who  had  health  and  real 
substance  in  him  of  whatever  magnitude,  was  ever 
much  tormented  In  this  way. 

Your  Cromwell,  what  good  could  it  do  him  to 
be  ‘ noticed  ’ by  noisy  crowds  of  people  ? God  his 
Maker  already  noticed  him.  He,  Cromwell,  was 
274 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

already  there ; no  notice  would  make  him  other 
than  he  already  was.  Till  his  hair  was  grown  gray ; 
and  Life  from  the  downhill  slope  was  all  seen  to  be 
limited,  not  infinite  but  finite,  and  all  a measurable 
matter  how  it  went, — he  had  been  content  to  plough 
the  ground,  and  read  his  Bible.  He  in  his  old  days 
could  not  support  it  any  longer,  without  selling  him- 
self to  Falsehood,  that  he  might  ride  in  gilt  carriages 
to  Whitehall,  and  have  clerks  with  bundles  of  papers 
haunting  him,  ‘‘  Decide  this,  decide  that,”  which  in 
utmost  sorrow  of  heart  no  man  can  perfectly  decide ! 
What  could  gilt  carriages  do  for  this  man  ? From  of 
old,  was  there  not  in  his  life  a weight  of  meaning, 
a terror  and  a splendour  as  of  Heaven  itself?  His 
existence  there  as  man  set  him  beyond  the  need 
of  gilding.  Death,  Judgment  and  Eternity  : these 
already  lay  as  the  background  of  whatsoever  he 
thought  or  did.  All  his  life  lay  begirt  as  in  a sea  of 
nameless  Thoughts,  which  no  speech  of  a mortal 
could  name.  God’s  Word,  as  the  Puritan  prophets 
of  that  time  had  read  it : this  was  great,  and  all 
else  was  little  to  him.  To  call  such  a man  ^ am- 
bitious,’ to  figure  him  as  the  prurient  windbag 
described  above,  seems  to  me  the  poorest  solecism. 
Such  a man  will  say : Keep  your  gilt  carriages 

and  huzzaing  mobs,  keep  your  red-tape  clerks, 
your  influentialities,  your  important  businesses. 
Leave  me  alone,  leave  me  alone ; there  is  too  much 
of  life  in  me  already!”  Old  Samuel  Johnson,  the 
greatest  soul  in  England  in  his  day,  was  not  ambi- 
tious. ‘ Corsica  Boswell  ’ flaunted  at  public  shows 
with  printed  ribbons  round  his  hat ; but  the  great 
old  Samuel  stayed  at  home.  The  world-wide  soul 
wrapt-up  in  its  thoughts,  in  its  sorrows ; — what  could 
paradings,  and  ribbons  in  the  hat,  do  for  it  ? 

Ah  yes,  I will  say  again  ; The  great  silent  men  ! 

275 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Looking  round  on  the  noisy  inanity  of  the  world, 
words  with  little  meaning,  actions  with  little  worth, 
one  loves  to  reflect  on  the  great  Empire  of  Silence. 
The  noble  silent  men,  scattered  here  and  there, 
each  in  his  department ; silently  thinking,  silently 
working  ; whom  no  Morning  Newspaper  makes 
mention  of!  They  are  the  salt  of  the  Earth.  A 
country  that  has  none  or  few  of  these  is  in  a bad 
way.  Like  a forest  which  had  no  roots  ; which  had 
all  turned  into  leaves  and  boughs; — which  must 
soon  wither  and  be  no  forest.  Woe  for  us  if  we  had 
nothing  but  what  we  can  show,  or  speak.  Silence, 
the  great  Empire  of  Silence:  higher  than  the  stars  ; 
deeper  than  the  Kingdoms  of  Death  ! It  alone  is 
great ; all  else  is  small. — I hope  we  English  will 
long  maintain  our  grand  talent  pour  le  silence.  Let 
others  that  cannot  do  without  standing  on  barrel- 
heads, to  spout,  and  be  seen  of  all  the  market- 
place, cultivate  speech  exclusively, — become  a 
most  green  forest  without  roots  ! Solomon  says. 
There  is  a time  to  speak  ; but  also  a time  to  keep 
silence.  Of  some  great  silent  Samuel,  not  urged  to 
writing,  as  old  Samuel  Johnson  says  he  was,  by 
want  of  money,  and  nothing  other,  one  might  ask. 
Why  do  not  you  too  get  up  and  speak ; pro- 
mulgate your  system,  found  your  sect  ? ” “ Truly,” 
he  will  answer,  “ I am  continent  of  my  thought 
hitherto  ; happily  I have  yet  had  the  ability  to 
keep  it  in  me,  no  compulsion  strong  enough  to 
speak  it.  My  ‘ system  ’ is  not  for  promulgation 
first  of  all ; it  is  for  serving  myself  to  live  by.  That 
is  the  great  purpose  of  it  to  me.  And  then  the 
‘ honour  ? ^ Alas,  yes ; — but  as  Cato  said  of  the 
statue:  So  many  statues  in  that  Forum  of  yours, 
may  it  not  be  better  if  they  ask.  Where  is  Cato’s 

statue  ? ” 

276 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

But  now,  by  way  of  counterpoise  to  this  of 
Silence,  let  me  say  that  there  are  two  kinds  of 
ambition ; one  wholly  blamable,the  other  laudable 
and  inevitable.  Nature  has  provided  that  the  great 
silent  Samuel  shall  not  be  silent  too  long.  The 
selfish  wish  to  shine  over  others,  let  it  be  accounted 
altogether  poor  and  miserable.  ‘ Seekest  thou  great 
things,  seek  them  not  ^ : this  is  most  true.  And  yet, 
I say,  there  is  an  irrepressible  tendency  in  every 
man  to  develop  himself  according  to  the  magnitude 
which  Nature  has  made  him  of ; to  speak-out,  to 
act-out,  what  Nature  has  laid  in  him.  This  is 
proper,  fit,  inevitable ; nay  it  is  a duty,  and  even 
the  summary  of  duties  for  a man.  The  meaning  of 
life  here  on  earth  might  be  defined  as  consisting  in 
this  : To  unfold  your  self,  to  work  what  thing  you 
have  the  faculty  for.  It  is  a necessity  for  the  human 
being,  the  first  law  of  our  existence.  Coleridge 
beautitully  remarks  that  the  infant  learns  to  speak 
by  this  necessity*it  feels. — We  will  say  therefore ; 
To  decide  about  ambition,  whether  it  is  bad  or  not, 
you  have  two  things  to  take  into  view.  Not  the 
coveting  of  the  place  alone,  but  the  fitness  of  the 
man  for  the  place  withal:  that  is  the  question. 
Perhaps  the  place  was  his;  perhaps  he  had  a 
natural  right,  and  even  obligation,  to  seek  the 
place  ! Mirabeau’s  ambition  to  be  Prime  Minister, 
how  shall  we  blame  it,  if  he  were  ‘ the  only  man  in 
France  that  could  have  done  any  good  there?’ 
Hopefuller  perhaps  had  he  not  so  clearly  felt 
how  much  good  he  could  do  ! But  a poor  Necker, 
who  could  do  no  good,  and  had  even  felt  that 
he  could  do  none,  yet  sitting  broken-hearted  be- 
cause they  had  flung  him  out,  and  he  was  now 
quit  of  it,  well  might  Gibbon  mourn  over  him. — 
Nature,  I say,  has  provided  amply  that  the  silent 

277 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

great  man  shall  strive  to  speak  withal ; too  amply, 
rather ! 

Fancy,  for  example,  you  had  revealed  to  the 
brave  old  Samuel  Johnson,  in  his  shrouded-up 
existence,  that  it  was  possible  for  him  to  do  price- 
less divine  work  for  his  country  and  the  whole 
world.  That  the  perfect  Heavenly  Law  might  be 
made  Law  on  this  Earth ; that  the  prayer  he 
prayed  daily,  ‘ Thy  kingdom  come,’  was  at  length 
to  be  fulfilled ! If  you  had  convinced  his  judgment 
of  this ; that  it  was  possible,  practicable ; that  he 
the  mournful  silent  Samuel  was  called  to  take  a part 
in  it ! Would  not  the  whole  soul  of  the  man  have 
flamed-up  into  a divine  clearness,  into  noble  utter- 
ance and  determination  to  act ; casting  all  sorrows 
and  misgivings  under  his  feet,  counting  all  affliction 
and  contradiction  small, — the  whole  dark  element 
of  his  existence  blazing  into  articulate  radiance  of 
light  and  lightning  ? It  were  a true  ambition  this  ! 
And  think  now  how  it  actually  was  with  Cromwell. 
From  of  old,  the  sufferings  of  God’s  Church,  true 
zealous  Preachers  of  the  truth  flung  into  dungeons, 
whipt,  set  on  pillories,  their  ears  cropt-off,  God’s 
Gospel-cause  trodden  underfoot  of  the  unworthy: 
all  this  had  lain  heavy  on  his  soul.  Long  years  he 
had  looked  upon  it,  in  silence,  in  prayer ; seeing  no 
remedy  on  Earth ; trusting  well  that  a remedy  in 
Heaven’s  goodness  would  come, — that  such  a course 
was  false,  unjust,  and  could  not  last  forever.  And 
now  behold  the  dawn  of  it ; after  twelve  years  silent 
waiting,  all  England  stirs  itself ; there  is  to  be  once 
more  a Parliament,  the  Right  will  get  a voice  for 
itself:  inexpressible  well-grounded  hope  has  come 
again  into  the  Earth.  Was  not  such  a Parliament 
worth  being  a member  of?  Cromwell  threw  down 
his  ploughs,  and  hastened  thither.  He  spoke  there, — 
278 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

rugged  bursts  of  earnestness,  of  a self-seen  truth, 
where  we  get  a glimpse  of  them.  He  worked  there ; 
he  fought  and  strove,  like  a strong  true  giant  of  a 
man,  through  cannon-tumult  and  all  else, — on  and 
on,  till  the  Cause  triumphed^  its  once  so  formidable 
enemies  all  swept  from  before  it,  and  the  dawn  of 
hope  had  become  clear  light  of  victory  and  cer- 
tainty. That  he  stood  there  as  the  strongest  soul  of 
England,  the  undisputed  Hero  of  all  England, — 
what  of  this?  It  was  possible  that  the  Law  of 
Christ’s  Gospel  could  now  establish  itself  in  the 
world ! The  Theocracy  which  John  Knox  in  his 
pulpit  might  dream  of  as  a ‘devout  imagination,’ 
this  practical  man,  experienced  in  the  whole  chaos 
of  most  rough  practice,  dared  to  consider  as  capable 
of  being  realised.  Those  that  were  highest  in  Christ’s 
Church,  the  devoutest  wisest  men,  were  to  rule  the 
land : in  some  considerable  degree,  it  might  be  so 
and  should  be  so.  Was  it  not  true,  God’s  truth? 
And  if  true,  was  it  not  then  the  very  thing  to  do  ? 
The  strongest  practical  intellect  in  England  dared 
to  answer.  Yes ! This  I call  a noble  true  purpose  ; 
is  it  not,  in  its  own  dialect,  the  noblest  that  could 
enter  into  the  heart  of  Statesman  or  man  ? For  a 
Knox  to  take  it  up  was  something ; but  for  a Crom- 
well, with  his  great  sound  sense  and  experience  of 
what  our  world  was, — History,  I think,  shows  it 
only  this  once  in  such  a degree.  I account  it  the 
culminating  point  of  Protestantism ; the  most  heroic 
phasis  that  ‘Faith  in  the  Bible’  was  appointed  to 
exhibit  here  below.  Fancy  it : that  it  were  made 
manifest  to  one  of  us,  how  we  could  make  the  Right 
supremely  victorious  over  Wrong,  and  all  that  we 
had  longed  and  prayed  for,  as  the  highest  good  to 
England  and  all  lands,  an  attainable  fact ! 

Well,  I must  say,  the  vulpine  intellect,  with  its 

279 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

knowingness,  its  alertness  and  expertness  in  ‘detect- 
ing hypocrites/  seems  to  me  a rather  sorry  business. 
We  have  had  but  one  such  Statesman  in  England ; 
one  man,  that  I can  get  sight  of,  who  ever  had  in 
the  heart  of  him  any  such  purpose  at  all.  One  man, 
in  the  course  of  fifteen-hundred  years;  and  this  was 
his  welcome.  He  had  adherents  by  the  hundred  or 
the  ten ; opponents  by  the  million.  Had  England 
rallied  all  round  him, — why,  then,  England  might 
have  been  a Christian  land  ! As  it  is,  vulpine  know- 
ingness sits  yet  at  its  hopeless  problem,  ‘Given  a 
world  of  Knaves,  to  educe  an  Honesty  from  their 
united  action  ’ ; — how  cumbrous  a problem,  you 
may  see  in  Chancery  Law-Courts,  and  some  other 
places ! Till  at  length,  by  Heaven’s  just  anger,  but 
also  by  Heaven’s  great  grace,  the  matter  begins  to 
stagnate ; and  this  problem  is  becoming  to  all  men 
a palpably  hopeless  one. — 

But  with  regard  to  Cromwell  and  his  purposes : 
Hume,  and  a multitude  following  him,  come  upon 
me  here  with  an  admission  that  Cromwell  was  sin- 
cere at  first ; a sincere  ‘Fanatic’  at  first,  but  gradu- 
ally became  a ‘ Hypocrite  ’ as  things  opened  round 
him.  This  of  the  Fanatic- Hypocrite  is  Hume’s 
theory  of  it;  extensively  applied  since, — to  Ma- 
homet and  many  others.  Think  of  it  seriously,  you 
will  find  something  in  it ; not  much,  not  all,  very 
far  from  all.  Sincere  hero-hearts  do  not  sink  in  this 
miserable  manner.  The  Sun  flings-forth  impurities, 
gets  balefully  incrusted  with  spots ; but  it  does  not 
quench  itself,  and  become  no  Sun  at  all,  but  a 
mass  of  Darkness  ! I will  venture  to  say  that  such 
never  befel  a great  deep  Cromwell ; I think,  never. 
Nature’s  own  lion-hearted  Son ; Antaeus-like,  his 
strength  is  got  by  touching  the  Earthy  his  Mother; 
280 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

lift  him  up  from  the  Earth,  lift  him  up  into  Hypo- 
crisy, Inanity,  his  strength  is  gone.  We  will  not 
assert  that  Cromwell  was  an  immaculate  man  ; that 
he  fell  into  no  faults,  no  insincerities  among  the  rest. 
He  was  no  dilettante  professor  of  ^perfections,’ 
‘immaculate  conducts.’  He  was  a rugged  Orson, 
rending  his  rough  way  through  actual  true  work, — 
doubtless  with  many  a fall  therein.  Insincerities, 
faults,  very  many  faults  daily  and  hourly : it  was 
too  well  known  to  him ; known  to  God  and  him ! 
The  Sun  was  dimmed  many  a time ; but  the  Sun 
had  not  himself  grown  a Dimness.  Cromwell’s  last 
words,  as  he  lay  waiting  for  death,  are  those  of  a 
Christian  heroic  man.  Broken  prayers  to  God,  that 
He  would  judge  him  and  this  Cause,  He  since  man 
could  not,  in  justice  yet  in  pity.  They  are  most 
touching  words.  He  breathed-out  his  wild  great 
soul,  its  toils  and  sins  all  ended  now,  into  the 
presence  of  his  Maker,  in  this  manner. 

I,  for  one,  will  not  call  the  man  a Hypocrite! 
Hypocrite,  mummer,  the  life  of  him  a mere  theatri- 
cality ; empty  barren  quack,  hungry  for  the  shouts 
of  mobs?  The  man  had  made  obscurity  do  very 
well  for  him  till  his  head  was  gray ; and  now  he 
was,  there  as  he  stood  recognised  unblamed,  the 
virtual  King  of  England.  Cannot  a man  do  without 
King’s  Coaches  and  Cloaks  ? Is  it  such  a blessed- 
ness to  have  clerks  for  ever  pestering  you  with 
bundles  of  papers  in  red  tape  ? A simple  Diocletian 
prefers  planting  of  cabbages ; a George  Washington, 
no  very  immeasurable  man,  does  the  like.  One 
would  say,  it  is  what  any  genuine  man  could  do; 
and  would  do.  The  instant  his  real  work  were  out 
in  the  matter  of  Kingship, — away  with  it ! 

Let  us  remark,  meanwhile,  how  indispensable 
everywhere  a King  is,  in  all  movements  of  men.  It 

281 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

is  strikingly  shown,  in  this  very  War,  what  becomes 
of  men  when  they  cannot  find  a Chief  Man,  and 
their  enemies  can.  The  Scotch  Nation  was  all  but 
unanimous  in  Puritanism  ; zealous  and  of  one  mind 
about  it,  as  in  this  English  end  of  the  Island  was 
always  far  from  being  the  case.  But  there  was  no 
great  Cromwell  among  them ; poor  tremulous,  hesi- 
tating, diplomatic  Argyles  and  such  like : none  of 
them  had  a heart  true  enough  for  the  truth,  or  durst 
commit  himself  to  the  truth.  They  had  no  leader  ; 
and  the  scattered  Cavalier  party  in  that  country 
had  one : Montrose,  the  noblest  of  all  the  Cavaliers; 
an  accomplished,  gallant-hearted,  splendid  man; 
what  one  may  call  the  Hero- Cavalier.  Well,  look 
at  it ; on  the  one  hand  subjects  without  a King ; on 
the  other  a King  without  subjects ! The  subjects 
without  King  can  do  nothing ; the  subjectless  King 
can  do  something.  This  Montrose,  with  a handful 
of  Irish  or  Highland  savages,  few  of  them  so  much 
as  guns  in  their  hands,  dashes  at  the  drilled  Puritan 
armies  like  a wild  whirlwind ; sweeps  them,  time 
after  time,  some  five  times  over,  from  the  field 
before  him.  He  was  at  one  period,  for  a short  while, 
master  of  all  Scotland.  One  man ; but  he  was  a 
man : a million  zealous  men,  but  without  the  one ; 
they  against  him  were  powerless ! Perhaps  of  all 
the  persons  in  that  Puritan  struggle,  from  first  to 
last,  the  single  indispensable  one  was  verily  Crom- 
well. To  see  and  dare,  and  decide ; to  be  a fixed 
pillar  in  the  welter  of  uncertainty  ; — a King  among 
them,  whether  they  called  him  so  or  not. 

Precisely  here,  however,  lies  the  rub  for  Crom- 
well. His  other  proceedings  have  all  found  advocates, 
and  stand  generally  justified ; but  this  dismissal  of 
the  Rump  Parliament  and  assumption  of  the  Pro- 
282 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

tectorship,  is  what  no  one  can  pardon  him.  He  had 
fairly  grown  to  be  King  in  England  ; Chief  Man  of 
the  victorious  party  in  England : but  it  seems  he 
could  not  do  without  the  King’s  Cloak,  and  sold 
himself  to  perdition  in  order  to  get  it.  Let  us  see  a 
little  how  this  was. 

England,  Scotland,  Ireland,  all  lying  now  subdued 
at  the  feet  of  the  Puritan  Parliament,  the  practical 
question  arose.  What  was  to  be  done  with  it  ? How 
will  you  govern  these  Nations,  which  Providence 
in  a wondrous  way  has  given-up  to  your  disposal  ? 
Clearly  those  hundred  surviving  members  of  the 
Long  Parliament,  who  sit  there  as  supreme  authority, 
cannot  continue  forever  to  sit.  What  is  to  be  done? — 
It  was  a question  which  theoretical  constitution- 
builders  may  find  easy  to  answer ; but  to  Cromwell, 
looking  there  into  the  real  practical  facts  of  it,  there 
could  be  none  more  complicated.  He  asked  of  the 
Parliament,  What  it  was  they  would  decide  upon  ? 
It  was  for  the  Parliament  to  say.  Yet  the  Soldiers 
too,  however  contrary  to  Formula,  they  who  had 
purchased  this  victory  with  their  blood,  it  seemed 
to  them  that  they  also  should  have  something  to  say 
in  it ! We  will  not  "‘for  all  our  fighting  have  nothing 
but  a little  piece  of  paper.”  We  understand  that  the 
Law  of  God’s  Gospel,  to  which  He  through  us  has 
given  the  victory,  shall  establish  itself,  or  try  to 
establish  itself  in  this  land  ! 

F or  three  years,  Cromwell  says,  this  question  had 
been  sounded  in  the  ears  of  the  Parliament.  They 
could  make  no  answer ; nothing  but  talk,  talk.  Per- 
haps it  lies  in  the  nature  of  parliamentary  bodies; 
perhaps  no  Parliament  could  in  such  case  make  any 
answer  but  even  that  of  talk,  talk  ! Nevertheless 
the  question  must  and  shall  be  answered.  You  sixty 
men  there,  becoming  fast  odious,  even  despicable, 

283 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

to  the  whole  nation,  whom  the  nation  already  call 
Rump  Parliament,  yott  cannot  continue  to  sit  there: 
who  or  what  then  is  to  follow  ? ‘ F ree  Parliament,’ 
right  of  Election,  Constitutional  Formulas  of  one 
sort  or  the  other, — the  thing  is  a hungry  Fact 
coming  on  us,  which  we  must  answer  or  be  devoured 
by  it ! And  who  are  you  that  prate  of  Constitutional 
Formulas,  rights  of  Parliament  ? You  have  had  to 
kill  your  King,  to  make  Pride’s  Purges,  to  expel 
and  banish  by  the  law  of  the  stronger  whosoever 
would  not  let  your  Cause  prosper : there  are  but 
fifty  or  three-score  of  you  left  there,  debating  in 
these  days.  Tell  us  what  we  shall  do ; not  in  the 
way  of  Formula,  but  of  practicable  Fact ! 

How  they  did  finally  answer,  remains  obscure  to 
this  day.  The  diligent  Godwin  himself  admits  that 
he  cannot  make  it  out.  The  likeliest  is,  that  this 
poor  Parliament  still  would  not,  and  indeed  could 
not  dissolve  and  disperse;  that  when  it  came  to  the 
point  of  actually  dispersing,  they  again,  for  the  tenth 
or  twentieth  time,  adjourned  it, — and  Cromwell’s 
patience  failed  him.  But  we  will  take  the  favour- 
ablest  hypothesis  ever  started  for  the  Parliament ; 
the  favourablest,  though  I believe  it  is  not  the  true 
one,  but  too  favourable.  According  to  this  version : 
At  the  uttermost  crisis,  when  Cromwell  and  his 
Officers  were  met  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  fifty  or 
sixty  Rump  Members  on  the  other,  it  was  suddenly 
told  Cromwell  that  the  Rump  in  its  despair  was 
answering  in  a very  singular  way ; that  in  their 
splenetic  envious  despair,  to  keep-out  the  Army  at 
least,  these  men  were  hurrying  through  the  House 
a kind  of  Reform  Bill, — Parliament  to  be  chosen  by 
the  whole  of  England ; equable  electoral  division 
into  districts ; free  suffrage,  and  the  rest  of  it ! A 
very  questionable,  or  indeed  for  them  an  unques- 
284 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

tionable  thing.  Reform  Bill,  free  suffrage  of  Eng- 
lishmen? Why,  the  Royalists  themselves,  silenced 
indeed  but  not  exterminated,  perhaps  outnumber  us ; 
the  great  numerical  majority  of  England  was  always 
indifferent  to  our  Cause,  merely  looked  at  it  and 
submitted  to  it.  It  is  in  weight  and  force,  not  by 
counting  of  heads,  that  we  are  the  majority ! And 
now  with  your  Formulas  and  Reform  Bills,  the 
whole  matter,  sorely  won  by  our  swords,  shall  again 
launch  itself  to  sea  ; become  a mere  hope,  and  likeli- 
hood, small  even  as  a likelihood  ? And  it  is  not  a 
likelihood ; it  is  a certainty,  which  we  have  won, 
by  God’s  strength  and  our  own  right  hands,  and  do 
now  hold  here,  Cromwell  walked  down  to  these 
refractory  Members ; interrupted  them  in  that  rapid 
speed  of  their  Reform  Bill ; — orderedthem  to  begone, 
and  talk  there  no  more. — Can  we  not  forgive  him  ? 
Can  we  not  understand  him  ? John  Milton,  who 
looked  on  it  all  near  at  hand,  could  applaud  him. 
The  Reality  had  swept  the  Formulas  away  before 
it.  I fancy,  most  men  who  were  realities  in  England 
might  see  into  the  necessity  of  that. 

The  strong  daring  man,  therefore,  has  set  all 
manner  of  Formulas  and  logical  superficialities 
against  him  ; has  dared  appeal  to  the  genuine  Fact 
of  this  England,  Whether  it  will  support  him  or  not  ? 
It  is  curious  to  see  how  he  struggles  to  govern  in 
some  constitutional  way ; find  some  Parliament  to 
support  him  ; but  cannot.  His  first  Parliament,  the 
one  they  call  Barebones’s  Parliament,  is,  so  to  speak, 
a Convocation  of  the  Notables.  From  all  quarters  of 
England  the  leading  Ministers  and  chief  Puritan 
Ofiicials  nominate  the  men  most  distinguished  by 
religious  reputation,  influence  and  attachment  to 
the  true  Cause : these  are  assembled  to  shape-out 
a plan.  They  sanctioned  what  was  past ; shaped  as 

285 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

they  could  what  was  to  come.  They  were  scornfully 
called  Barebones^s  Parliament:  the  man’s  name,  it 
seems,  was  not  Barebones,  but  Barbone, — a good 
enough  man.  Nor  was  it  a jest,  their  work  ; it  was 
a most  serious  reality, — a trial  on  the  part  of  these 
Puritan  Notables  how  far  the  Law  of  Christ  could 
become  the  Law  of  this  England,  There  were  men 
of  sense  among  them,  men  of  some  quality ; men  of 
deep  piety  I suppose  the  most  of  them  were.  They 
failed,  it  seems,  and  broke-down,  endeavouring  to 
reform  the  Court  of  Chancery ! They  dissolved 
themselves,  as  incompetent ; delivered-up  their 
power  again  into  the  hands  of  the  Lord  General 
Cromwell,  to  do  with  it  what  he  liked  and  could. 

What  will  he  do  with  it  ? The  Lord  General 
Cromwell,  ‘Commander-in-chief  of  all  the  Forces 
raised  and  to  be  raised  ’ ; he  hereby  sees  himself, 
at  this  unexampled  juncture,  as  it  were  the  one 
available  Authority  left  in  England,  nothing  be- 
tween England  and  utter  Anarchy  but  him  alone. 
Such  is  the  undeniable  Fact  of  his  position  and 
England’s,  there  and  then.  What  will  he  do  with  it  ? 
After  deliberation,  he  decides  that  he  will  accept  it ; 
will  formally,  with  public  solemnity,  say  and  vow 
before  God  and  men,  “Yes,  the  Fact  is  so,  and  I will 
do  the  best  I can  with  it ! ” Protectorship,  Instru- 
ment of  Government, — these  are  the  external  forms 
of  the  thing ; worked-out  and  sanctioned  as  they 
could  in  the  circumstances  be,  by  the  Judges,  by 
the  leading  Official  people,  ‘ Council  of  Officers  and 
Persons  of  interest  in  the  Nation  ’ : and  as  for  the 
thing  itself,  undeniably  enough,  at  the  pass  matters 
had  now  come  to,  there  was  no  alternative  but 
Anarchy  or  that.  Puritan  England  might  accept  it 
or  not ; but  Puritan  England  was,  in  real  truth, 
saved  from  suicide  thereby ! — I believe  the  Puritan 
286 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

People  did,  in  an  inarticulate,  grumbling,  yet  on  the 
whole  grateful  and  real  way,  accept  this  anomalous 
act  of  Oliver’s ; at  least,  he  and  they  together  made 
it  good,  and  always  better  to  the  last.  But  in  their 
Parliamentary  articulate  way,  they  had  their  diffi- 
culties, and  never  knew  fully  what  to  say  to  it ! — 
Oliver’s  second  Parliament,  properly  his  first 
regular  Parliament,  chosen  by  the  rule  laid-down 
in  the  Instrument  of  Government,  did  assemble, 
and  worked ; — but  got,  before  long,  into  bottomless 
questions  as  to  the  Protector’s  right,  as  to  ‘ usurpa- 
tion/ and  so  forth ; and  had  at  the  earliest  legal  day 
to  be  dismissed.  Cromwell’s  concluding  Speech  to 
these  men  is  a remarkable  one.  So  likewise  to  his 
third  Parliament,  in  similar  rebuke  for  their  pedan- 
tries and  obstinacies.  Most  rude,  chaotic,  all  these 
Speeches  are ; but  most  earnest-looking.  You 
would  say,  it  was  a sincere  helpless  man ; not  used 
to  speak  the  great  inorganic  thought  of  him,  but  to 
act  it  rather  ! A helplessness  of  utterance,  in  such 
bursting  fulness  of  meaning.  He  talks  much  about 
^ births  of  Providence  ’ ; All  these  changes,  so  many 
victories  and  events,  were  not  forethoughts,  and 
theatrical  contrivances  of  men,  of  me  or  of  men ; 
it  is  blind  blasphemers  that  will  persist  in  calling 
them  so  ! He  insists  with  a heavy  sulphurous 
wrathful  emphasis  on  this.  As  he  well  might.  As 
if  a Cromwell  in  that  dark  huge  game  he  had  been 
playing,  the  world  wholly  thrown  into  chaos  round 
him,  had  foreseen  it  all,  and  played  it  all  off  like 
a precontrived  puppetshow  by  wood  and  wire ! 
These  things  were  foreseen  by  no  man,  he  says ; 
no  man  could  tell  what  a day  would  bring  forth : 
they  were  ‘births  of  Providence/  God’s  finger 
guided  us  on,  and  we  came  at  last  to  clear 
height  of  victory,  God’s  Cause  triumphant  in  these 

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HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Nations ; and  you  as  a Parliament  could  assemble 
together,  and  say  in  what  manner  all  this  could  be 
organised,  reduced  into  rational  feasibility  among 
the  affairs  of  men.  You  were  to  help  with  your 
wise  counsel  in  doing  that.  ‘‘You  have  had  such 
an  opportunity  as  no  Parliament  in  England  ever 
had.”  Christ’s  Law,  the  Right  and  True,  was  to 
be  in  some  measure  made  the  Law  of  this  land. 
In  place  of  that,  you  have  got  into  your  idle  pedan- 
tries, constitutionalities,  bottomless  cavillings  and 
questionings  about  written  laws  for  my  coming 
here; — and  would  send  the  whole  matter  into  Chaos 
again,  because  I have  no  Notary’s  parchment,  but 
only  God’s  voice  from  the  battle-whirlwind,  for 
being  President  among  you  ! That  opportunity  is 
gone  ; and  we  know  not  when  it  will  return.  You 
have  had  your  constitutional  Logic ; and  Mam- 
mon’s Law,  not  Christ’s  Law,  rules  yet  in  this 
land.  “ God  be  judge  between  you  and  me ! ” 
These  are  his  final  words  to  them : Take  you  your 
constitution-formulas  in  your  hand ; and  I my  in- 
formal struggles,  purposes,  realities  and  acts ; and 
“ God  be  judge  between  you  and  me  ! ” — 

We  said  above  what  shapeless,  involved  chaotic 
things  the  printed  Speeches  of  Cromwell  are.  Wil- 
fully ambiguous,  unintelligible,  say  the  most : a 
hypocrite  shrouding  himself  in  confused  Jesuitic 
jargon ! To  me  they  do  not  seem  so.  I will  say  rather, 
they  afforded  the  first  glimpses  I could  ever  get  into 
the  reality  of  this  Cromwell,  nay  into  the  possi- 
bility of  him.  Try  to  believe  that  he  means  some- 
thing, search  lovingly  what  that  may  be : you  will 
find  a real  speech  lying  imprisoned  in  these  broken 
rude  tortuous  utterances  ; a meaning  in  the  great 
heart  of  this  inarticulate  man  ! You  will,  for  the 
first  time,  begin  to  see  that  he  was  a man ; not  an 
288 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

enigmatic  chimera,  unintelligible  to  you,  incredible 
to  you.  The  Histories  and  Biographies  written  of 
this  Cromwell,  written  in  shallow  sceptical  gene- 
rations that  could  not  know  or  conceive  of  a deep 
believing  man,  are  far  more  obscure  than  Gromweirs 
Speeches.  You  look  through  them  only  into  the 
infinite  vague  of  Black  and  the  Inane.  ‘ Heats  and 
jealousies,’  says  Lord  Clarendon  himself;  ‘heats 
and  jealousies,’  mere  crabbed  whims,  theories  and 
crotchets  ; these  induced  slow  sober  quiet  English- 
men to  lay-down  their  ploughs  and  work ; and  fly 
into  red  fury  of  confused  war  against  the  best-con- 
ditioned of  Kings ! Try  if  you  can  find  that  true. 
Scepticism  writing  about  Belief  may  have  great 
gifts;  but  it  is  really  ultra  vires  there.  It  is  Blindness 
laying-down  the  Laws  of  Optics. — 

Cromwell’s  third  Parliament  split  on  the  same 
rock  as  his  second.  Ever  the  constitutional  For- 
mula : How  came  you  there  ? Show  us  some  Notary 
parchment ! Blind  pedants : — “ Why,  surely  the 
same  power  which  makes  you  a Parliament,  that, 
and  something  more,  made  me  a Protector ! ” If 
my  Protectorship  is  nothing,  what  in  the  name  ot 
wonder  is  your  Parliamenteership,  a reflex  and 
creation  of  that  ? — 

Parliaments  having  failed,  there  remained  nothing 
but  the  way  of  Despotism.  Military  Dictators,  each 
with  his  district,  to  coerce  the  Royalist  and  other 
gainsay ers,  to  govern  them,  if  not  by  act  of  Parlia- 
ment, then  by  the  sword.  Formula  shall  not  carry 
it,  while  the  Reality  is  here  ! I will  go  on,  protect- 
ing oppressed  Protestants  abroad,  appointing  just 
judges,  wise  managers,  at  home,  cherishing  true 
Gospel  ministers ; doing  the  best  I can  to  make 
England  a Christian  England,  greater  than  old 
Rome,  the  Queen  of  Protestant  Christianity ; I, 
t 289 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

Since  you  will  not  help  me ; I while  God  leaves 
me  life ! — Why  did  he  not  give  it  up ; retire  into 
obscurity  again,  since  the  Law  would  not  acknow- 
ledge him  ? cry  several.  That  is  where  they  mis- 
take. For  him  there  was  no  giving  of  it  up ! Prime 
Ministers  have  governed  countries,  Pitt,  Pombal, 
Choiseul ; and  their  word  was  a law  while  it  held  : 
but  this  Prime  Minister  was  one  that  could  not  get 
resigned.  Let  him  once  resign,  Charles  Stuart  and 
the  Cavaliers  waited  to  kill  him ; to  kill  the  Cause 
and  him.  Once  embarked,  there  is  no  retreat,  no 
return.  This  Prime  Minister  could  retire  no- whither 
except  into  his  tomb. 

One  is  sorry  for  Cromwell  in  his  old  days.  His 
complaint  is  incessant  of  the  heavy  burden  Provi- 
dence has  laid  on  him.  Heavy ; which  he  must  bear 
till  death.  Old  Colonel  Hutchinson,  as  his  wife 
relates  it,  Hutchinson,  his  old  battle-mate^  coming 
to  see  him  on  some  indispensable  business,  much 
against  his  will, — Cromwell  ‘follows  him  to  the  door,^ 
in  a most  fraternal,  domestic,  conciliatory  style ; 
begs  that  he  would  be  reconciled  to  him,  his  old 
brother  in  arms  ; says  how  much  it  grieves  him  to 
be  misunderstood,  deserted  by  true  fellow  soldiers,  ^ 
dear  to  him  from  of  old : the  rigorous  Hutchinson, 
cased  in  his  Republican  formula,  sullenly  goes  his 
way. — And  the  man’s  head  now  white  ; his  strong 
arm  growing  weary  with  its  long  work ! I think 
always  too  of  his  poor  Mother,  now  very  old,  liv- 
ing in  that  Palace  of  his  ; a right  brave  woman ; 
as  indeed  they  lived  all  an  honest  God-fearing 
Household  there : if  she  heard  a shot  go-off,  she 
thought  it  was  her  son  killed.  He  had  to  come  to 
her  at  least  once  a day,  that  she  might  see  with 
her  own  eyes  that  he  was  yet  living.  The  poor  old 

Mother  ! What  had  this  man  gained ; what  had 

290 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

he  gained  ? He  had  a life  of  sore  strife  and  toil,  to 
his  last  day.  Fame,  ambition,  place  in  History? 
His  dead  body  was  hung  in  chains  ; his  ‘ place  in 
History’ — place  in  History  forsooth — has  been  a 
place  of  ignominy,  accusation,  blackness  and  dis- 
grace ; and  here,  this  day,  who  knows  if  it  is  not 
rash  in  me  to  be  among  the  first  that  ever  ventured 
to  pronounce  him  not  a knave  and  liar,  but  a 
genuinely  honest  njpin  ! Peace  to  him.  Did  he  not, 
in  spite  of  all,  accomplish  much  for  us  ? We  walk 
smoothly  over  his  great  rough  heroic  life ; step- 
over  his  body  sunk  in  the  ditch  there.  We  need 
not  spurn  it,  as  we  step  on  it  ! — Let  the  Hero  rest. 
It  was  not  to  men^s  judgment  that  he  appealed ; nor 
have  men  judged  him  very  well. 

Precisely  a century  and  a year  after  this  of  Puri- 
tanism had  got  itself  hushed-up  into  decent  com- 
posure, and  its  results  made  smooth,  in  1688,  there 
broke-out  a far  deeper  explosion,  much  more  difii- 
cult  to  hush-up,  known  to  all  mortals,  and  like  to 
be  long  known,  by  the  name  of  French  Revolution. 
It  is  properly  the  third  and  final  act  of  Protest- 
antism ; the  explosive  confused  return  of  mankind 
to  Reality  and  Fact,  now  that  they  were  perishing 
of  Semblance  and  Sham.  We  call  our  English 
Puritanism  the  second  act : “ Well  then,  the  Bible 
is  true  ; let  us  go  by  the  Bible  !”  “ In  Church,”  said 
Luther ; “ In  Church  and  State,”  said  Cromwell, 
“ let  us  go  by  what  actually  is  God’s  Truth.”  Men 
have  to  return  to  reality  ; they  cannot  live  on  sem- 
blance. The  French  Revolution,  or  third  act,  we 
may  well  call  the  final  one ; for  lower  than  that 
savage  Sansculottism  men  cannot  go.  They  stand 
there  on  the  nakedest  haggard  Fact,  undeniable  in 
all  seasons  and  circumstances ; and  may  and  must 

291 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

begin  again  confidently  to  build-up  from  that.  The 
French  explosion,  like  the  English  one,  got  its 
King, — who  had  no  Notary  parchment  to  show  for 
himself.  We  have  still  to  glance  for  a moment  at 
Napoleon,  our  second  modern  King. 

Napoleon  does  by  no  means  seem  to  me  so  great 
a man  as  Cromwell.  His  enormous  victories  which 
reached  over  all  Europe,  while  Cromwell  abode 
mainly  in  our  little  England,  are  but  as  the  high 
stilts  on  which  the  man  is  seen  standing ; the  stature 
of  the  man  is  not  altered  thereby.  I find  in  him  no 
such  sincerity  as  in  Cromwell;  only  a far  inferior 
sort.  No  silent  walking,  through  long  years,  with 
the  Awful  Unnamable  of  this  Universe ; ^ walking 
with  God,’  as  he  called  it ; and  faith  and  strength 
in  that  alone : latent  thought  and  valour,  content  to 
lie  latent,  then  burst-out  as  in  blaze  of  Heaven’s 
lightning ! Napoleon  lived  in  an  age  when  God  was 
no  longer  believed ; the  meaning  of  all  Silence, 
Latency,  was  thought  to  be  Nonentity : he  had  to 
begin  not  out  of  the  Puritan  Bible,  but  out  of  poor 
Sceptical  Encyclopedies,  This  was  the  length  the  man, 
carried  it.  Meritorious  to  get  so  far.  His  compact, 
prompt,  everyway  articulate  character  is  in  itself 
perhaps  small,  compared  with  our  great  chaotic  in- 
articulate Cromwell’s.  Instead  of  ^ dumb  Prophet 
struggling  to  speak,’  we  have  a portentous  mixture 
of  the  Quack  withal ! Hume’s  notion  of  the  Fanatic- 
Hypocrite,  with  such  truth  as  it  has,  will  apply  much 
better  to  Napoleon  than  it  did  to  Cromwell,  to 
Mahomet  or  the  like, — where  indeed  taken  strictly 
it  has  hardly  any  truth  at  all.  An  element  of  blam- 
able  ambition  shows  itself,  from  the  first,  in  this 
man  ; gets  the  victory  over  him  at  last,  and  involves 
him  and  his  work  in  ruin. 

‘ False  as  a bulletin  ’ became  a proverb  in  Napo- 

292 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

Icon’s  time.  He  makes  what  excuse  he  could  for 
it : that  it  was  necessary  to  mislead  the  enemy,  to 
keep-up  his  own  men’s  courage,  and  so  forth.  On 
the  whole,  there  are  no  excuses.  A man  in  no  case 
has  liberty  to  tell  lies.  It  had  been,  in  the  long-run, 
better  for  Napoleon  too  if  he  had  not  told  any.  In 
fact,  if  a man  have  any  purpose  reaching  beyond 
the  hour  and  day,  meant  to  be  found  extant  next 
day,  what  good  can  it  ever  be  to  promulgate  lies  ? 
The  lies  are  found-out ; ruinous  penalty  is  exacted 
for  them.  No  man  will  believe  the  liar  next  time 
even  when  he  speaks  truth,  when  it  is  of  the  last 
importance  that  he  be  believed.  The  old  cry  of 
wolf! — A Lie  is  no-thing ; you  cannot  of  nothing 
make  something ; you  make  nothing  at  last,  and  lose 
your  labour  into  the  bargain. 

Yet  Napoleon  had  a sincerity : we  are  to  dis- 
tinguish between  what  is  superficial  and  what  is 
fundamental  in  insincerity.  Across  these  outer 
manoeuvrings  and  quackeries  of  his,  which  were 
many  and  most  blamable,  let  us  discern  withal  that 
the  man  had  a certain  instinctive  ineradicable  feeling 
for  reality ; and  did  base  himself  upon  fact,  so  long 
as  he  had  any  basis.  He  has  an  instinct  of  Nature 
better  than  his  culture  was.  His  savans,  Bourrienne 
tells  us,  in  that  voyage  to  Egypt  were  one  evening 
busily  occupied  arguing  that  there  could  be  no  God. 
They  had  proved  it,  to  their  satisfaction,  by  all 
manner  of  logic.  Napoleon  looking  up  into  the 
stars,  answers,  ‘‘Very  ingenious.  Messieurs:  but 
who  made  all  that?”  The  Atheistic  logic  runs-off 
from  him  like  water;  the  great  Fact  stares  him  in 
the  face:  “Who  made  all  that?”  So  too  in  Prac- 
tice : he,  as  every  man  that  can  be  great,  or  have 
victory  in  this  world,  sees,  through  all  entanglements, 
the  practical  heart  of  the  matter ; drives  straight 

293 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

towards  that.  When  the  steward  of  his  Tuileries 
Palace  was  exhibiting  the  new  upholstery,  with 
praises,  and  demonstration  how  glorious  it  was,  and 
how  cheap  withal,  Napoleon,  making  little  answer, 
asked  for  a pair  of  scissors,  dipt  one  of  the  gold 
tassels  from  a window-curtain,  put  it  in  his  pocket, 
and  walked  on.  Some  days  afterwards,  he  produced 
it  at  the  right  moment,  to  the  horror  of  his  upholstery 
functionary ; it  was  not  gold  but  tinsel ! In  Saint 
Helena,  it  is  notable  how  he  still,  to  his  last  days, 
insists  on  the  practical,  the  real.  ‘‘Why  talk  and 
complain ; above  all,  why  quarrel  with  one  another? 
There  is  no  result  in  it ; it  comes  to  nothing  that  one 
can  do.  Say  nothing,  if  one  can  do  nothing  ! ” He 
speaks  often  so,  to  his  poor  discontented  followers ; 
he  is  like  a piece  of  silent  strength  in  the  middle  of 
their  morbid  querulousness  there. 

And  accordingly  was  there  not  what  we  can  call 
a faith  in  him,  genuine  so  far  as  it  went  ? That  'this 
new  enormous  Democracy  asserting  itself  here  in 
the  French  Revolution  is  an  insuppressible  Fact, 
which  the  whole  world,  with  its  old  forces  and  in- 
stitutions, cannot  put  down ; this  was  a true  insight 
of  his,  and  took  his  conscience  and  enthusiasm  along 
with  it, — a faith.  And  did  he  not  interpret  the  dim 
purport  of  it  well  ? ‘ La  carriere  ouverte  aux  talens. 
The  implements  to  him  who  can  handle  them’:  this 
actually  is  the  truth,  and  even  the  whole  truth ; it 
includes  whatever  the  French  Revolution,  or  any 
Revolution,  could  mean.  Napoleon,  in  his  first 
period,  was  a true  Democrat.  And  yet  by  the 
nature  of  him,  fostered  too  by  his  military  trade, 
he  knew  that  Democracy,  if  it  were  a true  thing  at 
all,  could  not  be  an  anarchy : the  man  had  a heart- 
hatred  for  anarchy.  On  that  Twentieth  of  June 
(1792),  Bourrienne  and  he  sat  in  a coffee-house,  as 
294 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

the  mob  rolled  by : Napoleon  expresses  the  deepest 
contempt  for  persons  in  authority  that  they  do  not 
restrain  this  rabble.  On  the  Tenth  of  August  he 
wonders  why  there  is  no  man  to  command  these 
poor  Swiss ; they  would  conquer  if  there  were. 
Such  a faith  in  Democracy,  yet  hatred  of  anarchy, 
it  is  that  carries  Napoleon  through  all  his  great 
work.  Through  his  brilliant  Italian  Campaigns, 
onwards  to  the  Peace  of  Leoben,  one  would  say, 
his  inspiration  is:  ‘Triumph  to  the  French  Revo- 
lution ; assertion  of  it  against  these  Austrian  Simu- 
lacra that  pretend  to  call  it  a Simulacrum  ! ’ Withal, 
however,  he  feels,  and  has  a right  to  feel,  how  neces- 
sary a strong  Authority  is;  how  the  Revolution 
cannot  prosper  or  last  without  such.  To  bridle-in 
that  great  devouring,  self- devouring  French  Revo- 
lution ; to  tame  it,  so  that  its  intrinsic  purpose  can 
be  made  good,  that  it  may  become  organic^  and  be 
able  to  live  among  other  organisms  and  formed 
things,  not  as  a wasting  destruction  alone : is  not 
this  still  what  he  partly  aimed  at,  as  the  true  pur- 
port of  his  life  ; nay  what  he  actually  managed  to 
do?  Through  Wagrams,  Austerlitzes ; triumph 
after  triumph, — he  triumphed  so  far.  There  was 
an  eye  to  see  in  this  man,  a soul  to  dare  and  do. 
He  rose  naturally  to  be  the  King.  All  men  saw 
that  he  was  such.  The  common  soldiers  used  to 
say  on  the  march : “ These  babbling  Avocats,  up  at 
Paris ; all  talk  and  no  work ! What  wonder  it  runs 
all  wrong  ? We  shall  have  to  go  and  put  our  Petit 
Caporal  there!”  They  went,  and  put  him  there; 
they  and  France  at  large.  Chief-consulship,  Em- 
perorship, victory  over  Europe  ; — till  the  poor 
Lieutenant  of  La  Fere,  not  unnaturally,  might  seem 
to  himself  the  greatest  of  all  men  that  had  been  in 
the  world  for  some  ages. 


295 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

But  at  this  point,  I think,  the  fatal  charlatan- 
element  got  the  upper  hand.  He  apostatised  from 
his  old  faith  in  Facts,  took  to  believing  in  Sem- 
blances ; strove  to  connect  himself  with  Austrian 
Dynasties,  Popedoms,  with  the  old  false  Feudali- 
ties which  he  once  saw  clearly  to  be  false ; — con- 
sidered that  he  would  found  ‘‘his  Dynasty”  and  so 
forth;  that  the  enormous  French  Revolution  meant 
only  that ! The  man  was  ‘given- up  to  strong  delu- 
sion, that  he  should  believe  a lie  ’ ; a fearful  but 
most  sure  thing.  He  did  not  know  true  from  false 
now  when  he  looked  at  them, — the  fearfullest 
penalty  a man  pays  for  yielding  to  untruth  of 
heart.  Self  and  false  ambition  had  now  become  his 
god : s^//-deception  once  yielded  to,  all  other  de- 
ceptions follow  naturally  more  and  more.  What  a 
paltry  patchwork  of  theatrical  paper- mantles,  tinsel 
and  mummery,  had  this  man  wrapt  his  own  great 
reality  in,  thinking  to  make  it  more  real  thereby ! 
His  hollow  Fope's- Concordat,  pretending  to  be  a 
re-establishment  of  Catholicism,  felt  by  himself  to 
be  the  method  of  extirpating  it,  “/a  vaccine  de  la 
religion^':  his  ceremonial  Coronations,  consecra- 
tions by  the  old  Italian  Chimera  in  Notre-Dame, — 
“ wanting  nothing  to  complete  the  pomp  of  it,”  as 
Augereau  said,  “ nothing  but  the  half-million  of 
men  who  had  died  to  put  an  end  to  all  that ! ” 
Cromwell’s  Inauguration  was  by  the  Sword  and 
Bible;  what  we  must  call  a genuinely  true  one. 
Sword  and  Bible  were  borne  before  him,  without 
any  chimera : were  not  these  the  real  emblems  of 
Puritanism;  its  true  decoration  and  insignia?  It 
had  used  them  both  in  a very  real  manner,  and 
pretended  to  stand  by  them  now ! But  this  poor 
Napoleon  mistook  : he  believed  too  much  in  the 
Dupeability  of  men ; saw  no  fact  deeper  in  man  than 
296 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

Hunger  and  this ! He  was  mistaken.  Like  a man 
that  should  build  upon  cloud ; his  house  and  he 
fall  down  in  confused  wreck,  and  depart  out  of  the 
world. 

Alas,  in  all  of  us  this  charlatan-element  exists ; 
and  might  be  developed,  were  the  temptation  strong 
enough.  ‘ Lead  us  not  into  temptation  ! ’ But  it  is 
fatal,  I say,  that  it  be  developed.  The  thing  into 
which  it  enters  as  a cognisable  ingredient  is  doomed 
to  be  altogether  transitory ; and,  however  huge  it 
may  look,  is  in  itself  small.  Napoleon’s  working, 
accordingly,  what  was  it  with  all  the  noise  it  made  ? 
A flash  as  of  gunpowder  wide-spread ; a blazing-up 
as  of  dry  heath.  For  an  hour  the  whole  Universe 
seems  wrapt  in  smoke  and  flame ; but  only  for  an 
hour.  It  goes  out : the  Universe  with  its  old  moun- 
tains and  streams,  its  stars  above  and  kind  soil 
beneath,  is  still  there. 

The  Duke  of  Weimar  told  his  friends  always.  To 
be  of  courage ; this  Napoleonism  was  unjust,  a false- 
hood, and  could  not  last.  It  is  true  doctrine.  The 
heavier  this  Napoleon  trampled  on  the  world, 
holding  it  tyrannously  down,  the  fiercer  would  the 
world’s  recoil  against  him  be,  one  day.  Injustice 
pays  itself  with  frightful  compound-interest.  I am 
not  sure  but  he  had  better  have  lost  his  best  park 
of  artillery,  or  had  his  best  regiment  drowned  in 
the  sea,  than  shot  that  poor  German  Bookseller, 
Palm  ! It  was  a palpable  tyrannous  murderous  in- 
justice, which  no  man,  let  him  paint  an  inch  thick, 
could  make-out  to  be  other.  It  burnt  deep  into  the 
hearts  of  men,  it  and  the  like  of  it ; suppressed  fire 
flashed  in  the  eyes  of  men,  as  they  thought  of  it, — 
waiting  their  day  ! Which  day  came:  Germany  rose 
round  him. — What  Napoleon  did  will  in  the  long- 
run  amount  to  what  he  did  justly;  what  Nature 

297 


HEROES  AND  HERO-WORSHIP 

with  her  laws  will  sanction.  To  what  of  reality 
was  in  him ; to  that  and  nothing  more.  The  rest 
was  all  smoke  and  waste.  La  carriere  ouverte  aux 
talens:  that  great  true  Message,  which  has  yet  to 
articulate  and  fulfil  itself  everywhere,  he  left  in  a 
most  inarticulate  state.  He  was  a great  ebauche, 
a rude-draught  never  completed ; as  indeed  what 
great  man  is  other?  Left  in  too  rude  a state,  alas! 

His  notions  of  the  world,  as  he  expresses  them 
there  at  St.  Helena,  are  almost  tragical  to  consider. 
He  seems  to  feel  the  most  unaffected  surprise  that 
it  has  all  gone  so ; that  he  is  flung-out  on  the  rock 
here,  and  the  World  is  still  moving  on  its  axis. 
France  is  great,  and  all-great ; and  at  bottom,  he  is 
France.  England  itself,  he  says,  is  by  Nature  only 
an  appendage  of  France;  “another  Isle  of  Oleron 
to  France.”  So  it  was  by  Nature,  by  Napoleon- 
Nature  ; and  yet  look  how  in  fact — HERE  AM  I ! 
He  cannot  understand  it : inconceivable  that  the 
reality  has  not  corresponded  to  his  program  of  it ; 
that  France  was  not  all-great,  that  he  was  not 
F ranee.  ‘ Strong  delusion,’  that  he  should  believe 
the  thing  to  be  which  is  not ! The  compact,  clear- 
seeing,  decisive  Italian  nature  of  him,  strong, 
genuine,  which  he  once  had,  has  enveloped  itself, 
half-dissolved  itself,  in  a turbid  atmosphere  of 
French  Fanfaronade.  The  world  was  not  disposed 
to  be  trodden-down  underfoot;  to  be  bound  into 
masses,  and  built  together,  as  he  liked,  for  a pedestal 
to  France  and  him:  the  world  had  quite  other 
purposes  in  view  ! Napoleon’s  astonishment  is  ex- 
treme. But  alas,  what  help  now?  He  had  gone 
that  way  of  his ; and  Nature  also  had  gone  her 
way.  Having  once  parted  with  Reality,  he  tumbles 
helpless  in  Vacuity ; no  rescue  for  him.  He  had 
to  sink  there,  mournfully  as  man  seldom  did ; and 
298 


THE  HERO  AS  KING 

break  his  great  heart,  and  die, — this  poor  Napoleon: 
a great  implement  too  soon  wasted,  till  it  was  use- 
less : our  last  Great  Man  ! 

Our  last,  in  a double  sense.  F or  here  finally  these 
wide  roamings  of  ours  through  so  many  times  and 
places,  in  search  and  study  of  Heroes,  are  to  termi- 
nate. I am  sorry  for  it : there  was  pleasure  for  me 
in  this  business,  if  also  much  pain.  It  is  a great 
subject,  and  a most  grave  and  wide  one,  this 
which,  not  to  be  too  grave  about  it,  I have  named 
Hero-worship.  It  enters  deeply,  as  I think,  into  the 
secret  of  Mankind’s  ways  and  vitallest  interests  in 
this  world,  and  is  well  worth  explaining  at  present. 
With  six  months,  instead  of  six  days,  we  might  have 
done  better.  I promised  to  break-ground  on  it ; I 
know  not  whether  I have  even  managed  to  do  that. 
I have  had  to  tear  it  up  in  the  rudest  manner  in 
order  to  get  into  it  at  all.  Often  enough,  with  these 
abrupt  utterances  thrown-out  isolated,  unexplained, 
has  your  tolerance  been  put  to  the  trial.  Tolerance, 
patient  candour,  all-hoping  favour  and  kindness, 
which  I will  not  speak  of  at  present.  The  accom- 
plished and  distinguished,  the  beautiful,  the  wise, 
something  of  what  is  best  in  England,  have  listened 
patiently  to  my  rude  words.  With  many  feelings, 
I heartily  thank  you  all;  and  say.  Good  be  with 
you  all  I 


299 


INDEX 

AGINCOURT,  Shakspeare’s  battle  of,  134 
Ali,  young,  Mahomet’s  kinsman  and  convert,  72 
Allegory,  the  sportful  shadow  of  earnest  Faith,  9,  37 
Ambition,  foolish  charge  of,  273,  274  ; laudable  ambition,  277 
Arabia  and  the  Arabs,  59,  60 

BALDER,  the  white  Sun-god,  23,  42 

Belief,  the  true  God-announcing  miracle,  71,  94, 178,  214  ; war  of,  253. 

See  Religion,  Scepticism 
Benthamism,  92,  93,  212 

Books,  miraculous  influence  of,  197,  198,  203 ; our  modern  University, 
Church  and  Parliament,  200-202 
Boswell,  225,  226,  275 
Buuyan’s  Pilgrim's  Progress^  9 

Burns,  231 ; his  birth,  and  humble  heroic  parents,  231,  232  ; rustic 
dialect,  232  ; the  most  gifted  British  soul  of  his  century,  234  ; 
resemblance  to  Mirabeau,  235  ; his  sincerity  236 ; his  visit  to  Edin- 
burgh, 238  ; Lion-hunted  to  death,  238,  239 

CAABAH,  the,  with  its  Black  Stone  and  Sacred  Well,  61 
Canopus,  worship  of,  12 

Charles  I.,  fatally  incapable  of  being  dealt  with,  264 
China,  literary  governors  of,  208 
Church.  See  Books 

Cromwell,  257  ; his  hypochondria,  262,  268  ; early  marriage  and  con- 
version; a quiet  farmer,  262  ; his  Ironsides,  265  ; his  Speeches,  270, 
288  ; his  ‘ambition’  and  the  like,  273  ; dismisses  the  Rump  Parlia- 
ment, 282  ; Protectorship  and  Parliamentary  Futilities,  285,  286  ; 
his  last  days  and  closing  sorrows,  290 

DANTE,  105  ; biography  in  his  Book  and  Portrait,  106 ; his  birth, 
education,  and  early  career,  107 ; love  for  Beatrice,  107,  108  ; 
unhappy  marriage  ; banishment,  108 ; uncourtier-like  ways,  109  ; 
death.  111;  his  Divina  Commedia  genuinely  a Song,  112;  the 
Unseen  World  as  figured  in  the  Christianity  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
118  ; ‘uses ’ of  Dante,  122 
David,  the  Hebrew  King,  58 
Divine  Right  of  Kings,  245 

Duty,  37,  78  ; infinite  nature  of,  92,  120  ; sceptical  spiritual-paralysis, 
211 

EDDA,  the  Scandinavian,  20,  21 
Eighteenth  Century,  the  sceptical,  210-218,  257 
Elizabethan  Era,  126 

FAULTS,  his,  not  the  criterion  of  any  man,  58 
Fichte’s  theory  of  literary  men,  193,  194 
Fire,  miraculous  nature  of,  21,  22 
Forms,  necessity  for,  254 
Frost.  See  Fire 


301 


INDEX 

GOETHE’S  ‘characters,*  128  ; Notahlest  of  Literary  Men,  195 

Graphic,  secret  of  being,  115 

Gray’s  misconception  of  Norse  Lore,  41 

HAMPDEN,  256 

Hero-worship  the  tap-root  of  all  Religion,  15-20,  53,  54  ; perennial  in 
man,  17,  104,  156,  250 

Heroes,  Universal  History  the  united  biographies  of,  3,  17,  35  ; how 
‘little  critics’  account  for  great  men,  16  ; all  Heroes  fundamentally 
of  the  same  stuff,  34,  54,  97,  143,  191,  243  ; Heroism  possible  to  all, 
157,  178,  217  ; Intellect,  the  primary  outfit,  129,  130 ; no  man  a hero 
to  a mZe^-soul,  225,  257,  267 
Hutchinson  and  Cromwell,  256,  290 

ICELAND,  the  home  of  Norse  Poets,  20 
Idolatry,  149  ; criminal  only  when  insincere,  150,  151 
Igdrasil,  the  Life-Tree,  25,  124,  125 
Intellect,  the  summary  of  man’s  gifts,  129,  209 
Islam,  70 

JOB,  the  Book  of,  61 

Johnson’s  difficulties,  poverty,  hypochondria,  219,  220  ; rude  self-help, 
221 ; stands  genuinely  by  the  old  formulas,  221  : his  noble  uncon- 
scious sincerity,  221-223;  twofold  Gospel  of  Prudence  and  hatred 
of  Cant,  224  ; his  Dictionary,  225  ; the  brave  old  Samuel,  278 
Jotuns,  21,  43 

KADIJAH,  the  Good,  Mahomet’s  first  wife,  66,  71 

King,  the,  a summary  of  all  the  various  figures  of  Heroism,  243 ; 

indispensable  to  all  movements  of  men,  281 
Knox’s  infiuence  on  Scotland,  178  ; the  bravest  of  Scotchmen,  179  ; 
his  unassuming  career;  sent  to  the  French  Galleys,  181,  182;  his 
colloquies  with  Queen  Mary,  182  ; vein  of  drollery ; brother  to  high 
and  to  low,  185  ; his  death,  186 
Koran,  79-82 

LAMAISM,  Grand,  7 
Leo  X.,  the  elegant  Pagan  Pope,  163 
Liberty  and  equality,  156,  250 
Literary  Men,  191  ; in  China,  208 

Literature,  chaotic  condition  of,  196  ; not  our  heaviest  evil,  210 
Luther’s  birth  and  parentage,  157;  hardship  and  rigorous  Necessity, 
158  ; death  of  Alexis ; becomes  monk,  169 ; his  religious  despair; 
finds  a Bible  ; deliverance  from  darkness,  160  ; Rome,  161 ; Tetzel, 
162;  burns  the  Pope’s  Bull,  164  ; at  the  Diet  of  Worms,  165  ; King 
of  the  Reformation,  170  ; ‘ Duke  George’s  nine  days  running,’  172; 
his  little  daughter’s  deathbed ; his  solitary  Patmos,  173 ; his  Por- 
trait, 174 

MAHOMET’S  birth,  boyhood,  and  youth,  63,  64  ; marries  Kadijah,  66  ; 
quiet  unambitious  life,  67,  68  ; divine  commission,  69 ; the  good 

302 


INDEX 


Kadijah  believes  him,  71  ; Seid  ; young  Ali,  72  ; offences,  and  sore 
struggles,  73,  74  ; flight  from  Mecca,  74  ; being  driven  to  take  the 
sword,  he  uses  it,  75  ; the  Koran,  79  ; a veritable  Hero,  87  ; Seid’s 
death,  88  ; freedom  from  Cant,  88  ; Infinite  Nature  of  Duty,  92 
Mary,  Queen,  and  Knox,  182 
Mayflower^  Sailing  of  the,  177 
Mecca,  62 

Middle  Ages,  represented  by  Dante  and  Shakspeare,  118,  119,  120 
Montrose,  the  Hero-Cavalier,  282 
Musical,  all  deep  things,  103 


NAPOLEON,  a portentous  mixture  of  Quack  and  Hero,  292;  his  in- 
stinct for  the  practical,  294  ; his  democratic  faith,  and  heart-hatred 
for  anarchy,  294,  295  ; apostatised  from  his  old  faith  in  Facts  and 
took  to  believing  in  Semblances,  296  ; this  Napoleonism  was  unjust, 
and  could  not  last,  297 

Nature,  all  one  Great  Miracle,  11,  84,  173;  a righteous  Umpire,  76 
Novalis,  on  Man,  13  ; Belief,  71 ; Shakspeare,  131 

ODIN,  the  first  Norse  ‘man  of  genius,’  26;  historic  rumours  and 
guesses,  29;  how  he  came  to  be  deified,  28-30;  invented  ‘runes,’ 
33  ; Hero,  Prophet,  God,  34 
Olaf,  King,  and  Thor,  47,  48 
Original,  the,  man,  the  sincere  man,  56,  155 

PAGANISM,  Scandinavian,  5 ; not  mere  Allegory,  8 ; Nature-worship 
14,  37  ; Hero-worship,  14  ; creed  of  our  fathers,  20,  43,  46  ; Imper- 
sonation of  the  visible  workings  of  Nature,  21  ; contrasted  with 
Greek  Paganism,  24 ; the  first  Norse  Thinker,  26 ; main  practical 
Belief  ; indispensable  to  be  brave,  38 ; hearty,  homely,  rugged  Mytho- 
logy ; Balder,  Thor,  41,  42  ; Consecration  of  Valour,  49 
Parliaments,  superseded  by  Books,  202  ; Cromwell’s  Parliaments,  288 
284 

Past,  the  whole,  the  possession  of  the  Present,  49 
Poet,  the,  and  Prophet,  97,  122,  135 
Poetry  and  Prose,  distinction  of,  102,  111 
Popery,  168,  169 

Priest,  the  true,  a kind  of  Prophet,  143 
Printing,  consequences  of,  202,  203 
Private  judgment,  163,  154 
Progress  of  the  Species,  146 
Prose.  See  Poetry 

Protestantism,  the  root  of  modern  European  History,  152,  153  ; not 
dead  yet,  168  ; its  living  fruit,  175,  247 
Purgatory,  noble  Catholic  conception  of,  117 

Puritanism,  founded  by  Knox,  176  ; true  beginning  of  America,  176  ; 
the  one  epoch  of  Scotland,  177;  Theocracy,  186;  Puritanism  in 
England,  253,  255,  278 


QUACKERY,  originates  nothing,  6,  7, 
Dupes,  267 


55;  age  of,  215;  Quacks  and 

303 


INDEX 


KAGNAROK,  47 
Reformer,  the  true,  144 

Religion,  a man’s,  the  chief  fact  with  reg^ard  to  him,  4 ; based  on 
Hero-worship,  15  ; propagating  by  the  sword,  75  ; cannot  succeed  by 
being  ‘easy,’  86 

Revolution,  245  ; the  French,  248 
Right  and  Wrong,  92,  119 

Rousseau,  not  a strong  man,  226  ; his  Portrait,  227  ; egoism.  228  ; his 
passionate  appeals  ; his  Books  like  himself,  unhealthy,  229  ; the 
Evangelist  of  the  French  Revolution,  230 

SCEPTICISM,  a spiritual  paralysis,  210-218,  257 
Scotland,  awakened  into  life  by  Knox,  177 
Secret,  the  Open,  99 

Seid,  Mahomet’s  slave  and  friend,  72,  88 

Shakspeare  and  the  Elizabethan  Era,  126,  127,  129;  his  Characters 
128  ; his  Dramas,  a part  of  Nature  herself,  131 ; his  Joyful  tran- 
quillity, and  overflowing  love  of  laughter,  132,  133  ; his  hearty 
Patriotism,  134;  glimpses  of  the  world  that  was  in  him,  134;  a 
heaven-sent  Light-Bringer,  136  ; a King  of  Saxondom,  139 
Shekinah,  Man,  the  true,  13 
Silence,  the  great  empire  of,  123,  276 

Sincerity,  better  than  gracefulness,  37  ; the  first  characteristic  of 
heroism  and  originality,  56,  67,  155,  157,  192 

THEOCRACY,  a,  striven  for  by  all  true  Reformers,  187,  279 

Thor,  and  his  adventures,  22,  24,  42-46  ; his  last  appearance,  48 

Thought,  miraculous  influence  of,  26,  35, 203  ; musical  Thought,  103 

Thunder.  See  Thor 

Time,  the  great  mystery  of,  11 

Tolerance,  true  and  false,  170,  183 

Turenne,  98 

UNIVERSITIES,  199 

VALOUR,  the  basis  of  all  virtues,  38,  42  ; Norse  Consecration  of,  49; 

Christian  Valour,  1 48 
Voltai  re-worship,  17 

WISH,  the  Norse  god,  23 ; enlarged  into  a Heaven  by  Mahomet,  93 
Worms,  Luther  at,  165 

Worship,  transcendent  wonder,  12.  See  Hero-worship 


ZEMZEM,  the  Sacred  Well,  61 


i 

'^eals  ; 


